Generalizations of Indian Ridiculous Buses.

Ha, just when you thought that my true intentions of blogdom was to shamelessly post pictures of me with cute kids, BAM, I give you something of substance.

Well, not really, but at least this blog is devoid of any picture that would make you coo.

Now, I must concede that my realm of expertise is minimal, mainly lying within Pac-Ten football, the Portland Trailblazers, and certain types of hip music. I unfortunately cannot even add India to the mix given that what I mainly know is geographically situated in the North, a culture that is surprisingly different than the south of the country.

That being said, I occasionally catch a few cringe worthy generalization about India, about religion, poverty, snake charming, and the dabbling of orientalist exoticism. While there maybe some truth is some statements that I have heard, but it is almost impossible to make such generalizations, given that there are thousands of different sides of India.

That being said, yesterday, I had an experience the other day that definitely fit nicely into a stereotype; the shitshow bus ride. While I had been countering with my experiences in Uttarakhand, where, sure, the drivers are reckless, amped up on amphetamines, and hurriedly whip around dangerous roads at reckless speeds, but inside the buses tend to be pretty mild; no rooftop sitting, etc. This particular experience gave me pause about my refutation of such stereotype.

In the mountain, the bus provides a vital lifeline to anywhere outside the village. Meager incomes are preventative for most to purchase motorcycles or cars and rented taxis are quite expensive. Shared taxis are a bit more expensive and only travel short distances. Therefore, the majority are reliant on very infrequent buses and very limited in space. If one were to miss a bus, plans could be shifted for an entire day. This produces a certain kind of desperation in many a bus rider.

So this ride started casually enough, I caught an isle seat next to a dapper young man traveling from the plains. After a couple stops, an older man, presumably an old teacher, boarded the bus, the the young man in a flash, vacated his seat out of veneration for his elder. The very next stop, the older man got off the bus, but instead of the young man retrieving his old seat, a fat sannyasi pushed him out of the way, crawled over me and took the window spot. Sannyasis are pretty rad, they leave all worldly possessions, adopt an wardrobe of saffron robes, and take oaths to live a spiritual, typically ascetic lifestyle. When they are good, they are good, but my close proximity to Rishikesh, international pseudo-spiritual capital (e.g. the Beatle's lived in an ashram there for a time), I have met far too many fake Sannyasis out to earn a quick buck off spiritually incline, but Indian naive tourists. This Sannyasi was suspect; his numerous fat rolls could barely be contained by his robe, long tufts of body hair wafted through the taught saffron, wicked with profuse amounts of sweat,, intense eyes perched below his curly receding hairline. After a while, he tried to speak to me, 'Conetree?' 'Mein Amerika se aaya hun.' 'Name?' 'Chad.' 'Yew come India?' 'Han ji, Mein aajkal Bhaarat mein rahta hun.' Done. I was probably showing visible distain for the sweat marks he was leaving on my teeshirt, so he left the conversation. He instead pick out his cellphone from his purse and partook in a very loud and seemingly angry conversation.

During the Sannyasi era, the bus aisles were getting more and more crowded. I was getting worried that we wouldn't be able to pick up any more passengers, but we hit a sort of critical mass when all emptied the aisle for the roof. While some opted to use the ladder in the back, many more, vying for the coveted front or foot dangling side seats, used open window, pushing away the elbows of those lucky to obtain an indoor spot, jumping to the top. By the next stop, the aisle was again full.

As we approached the town, the Sannyasi saw an opportunity to be the first off the bus, he literally slided over me, luckily my body was covered with his sweat which made for an easy glide, and squeezed through the crowded aisle. I grabbed the window seat and a nice early-twenties lady with her adorable baby sat next to me. Oh, sweet reprieve.

At that moment, a very elderly man made his way to the back of the bus near my seat. It took me a while to notice a baby goat baaahing at his knees, the poor thing looked so confused and apparently hungry. The lady next to me had fallen asleep, and the goat utilized the opportunity to start eating her pants. I tried my best to shoo him away, but he kept coming back for more of that tasty saalwar. Eventually, the old man gave the goat a whack with his stick, which seemed to curb his appetite.

Gaining the window seat revealed the part of the journey that I love most, the breathtaking views of the Himalayas and Ganges. But it also revealed the unsavory bits of the window seat. "Raindrops on my arm? But it's sunny out. Wait, I didn't know rain could have orange chunks in it. Why does that Auntie three seats ahead of me have half of her body out the window? Oh yeah, she is retching out her morning paranthas…onto my arm. lovely"

There it is, it does exist, crazy shitshow busrides. I'll let that one generalization slide for the moment, while I clean off the auntie vomit and sannyasi sweat. (Sidenote: When I return home, I am starting a drum&bass techno dance band called Sannyasi Sweat)

Move Over Ritu...

All the hits are still here in the Ashram, talking bout Aju, Pintu, Swati, Sudha, Sandhiya, and of course, Ritu. But it just is not the same: all the kids are accustom to my love and attention, which has created high expectations and demands (that I show them tons of attention, that I put them on my shoulders, that I chase them around). Of course, I willingly abide, but it gets a bit irritating at times, even when it is Ritu.

Therefore it is with great pride why I am proud to present my very new favorite kid, Babita. Oh, my Babu, the sweetest child in the world. She is so shy, it takes me about 5 minutes to get her to even say her name. In any case, she appreciates my attention, but isn't persistent. Everyday, she waits right in front of where I typically sit in assembly, waiting for a hug. And that smile, baap re! Babu's the best.














Babu and Chad with Hair
Babu and Chad with No Hair

An APV Update! Finally...

Aaaahhhh… Right now I am writing from the porch of our new kitchen at APV, gazing upon the green, terraced slopes spilling into the valleys below and the fruit trees gently dancing in the wind. Bijli, the puppy that we had gotten right before my departure is now a bonefide two year old dog! And she is lazily sleeping in the shade in front of me, deaf to the darting birds making attempts at the stale chapati and buffalo milk in her food dish.

I have been back at APV for about two weeks, just enough time to realize how unreal this place is. It seems like just yesterday, I was making the ridiculous journey here from Dehradun (a full 24 hours, which included stints in an overnight train, a shared three wheeler bus, the WORSE bus ride of my life, a boat ride across the Ganga, a three km walk that took 2 hours [it is Kumbha Mela in Rishikesh, the largest annual gathering in recorded history to the likes of 300,000 people], then finally a jeep to APV. uck.uck.uck.). Time has little very little significance here, which is both nice from a personal point of view and terribly frustrating from a professional.

In any case many things have changed, albeit only slightly. Maneesha, or my little Chuha, our principal's daughter and resident child in our ashram, has become the most delightful young women. She now is in 7th grade (sweet lawrd), and has shed, confusingly for her age group, her sassiness. I can recall far too many instances such sassiness, where the wrong use a color while helping her one of her pictures would warrant two weeks of silence and cold stares. Now she is a bundle of smarts, cleavers, and so much of love. Thank goodness she hasn't grown out of the endearing traits that have earned the moniker chuha, or mouse. If you leave out anything of her fancy unattended, such as chocolates, books, brightly colored things, etc., they will be gone within minutes; swept away to one of her many hidden goodie nests clandestinely scattered in our home, Ganesh Bhavan.

The fact that children mature when you leave them for a couple years was quite unsettling for me the first week. I was uncomfortable with the Mohit's bass voice, Deepak's sporty new mustache, Priyanka's growth spurt. The kids that I would chase around the school and tickle, now are mini adults. Completely unfair. At least some of my favs, Sudha, Sandiya(s), Saurabh, etc, have not grown an inch, and maintain the same sweet and inquisitive innocence that earned them their high spots on my echelon of favorites (I know a teacher should not hold biases, but that is no fun). Oh, and sweet Ritu, my fav of favs. She grew an inch and mother decided that it was time for her to look more like her first grade peers (e.g. cut her hair like a boy). Still uncontrollably adorable and able to scale any adult to find a nice spot on their shoulders.

The teachers are doing well. Jyoti and Garima, who came right as I was leaving have definitely matured into their teaching craft. I have especially been impressed by Jyoti, her thoughtful lesson plans, her abilities in the classroom, and eagerness to learn. We all are bracing ourselves for the loss of Mansoora next month. Arguably one of the sweetest, hardworking in our cadre, decided, or well, her parents decided that it was time for marriage. Sir ji is Sir ji, as he has always been Sir ji. He has had much energy in working on projects in the school and community, while developing a philosophy on 'mindfields,' a network of energy that binds all people together and can only be accessed through meditation. Still trying to wrap my head around it, but it is interesting enough. We also have two new fellows here, Charlie and Sameer, with whom I have been sharing a room with and enjoying getting to know.

Meditation has been sluggish and frustrating, as with getting readjusted to the schedule. It has been particularly busy as of late; take for example a couple days ago, when a 3:40am wake up call flowed into a meditation, breakfast prep, a tree felling trip, loading heavy logs down treacherous mountain sides, a ridiculous trip down to the market to pick up 25 pounds of vegetables, dinner preparations, then a birthday celebration for Jyoti. Exhausting. I have been working in the class trying to develop cohesive, interesting lesson plans to catch up our kids on English skills. I am finding, though, that the language barrier can be frustrating. My Hindi has become terrible. Also in combatting the popular opinion of myself as a giant white play toy I have found that discipline can be an issue. I hope that over the next couple months, I can further refine my teaching skills in preparation for a Masters in Teaching program when I come home.

I also have made an important discovery: village women don't forget. When I left India last time, I had amassed a group of mothers in my favorite village, Kantoli, that treated me as their own. They were so motherly in fact, that they all gave me their phone numbers and demanded a call when I returned home to tell them that I was safe. Unfortunately, I was swept up with reunions and documentary film making. I didn't call. They definitely remembered.
To my defense, one of the first things I did upon my return was visit this village, for my mind often wandered to the bucolic idylls of Kantoli; the cobbled houses nestled between rolling wheat fields, the worn, beautiful, aged woodwork, and the kind and hospitable townspeople. Some of my favorite memories and favorite people live in this town.
When I made my way down the village, I found all of the women, with whom I was closest to, singing bhaajans and kirtaans together in a small room (idyllic right?). I became quite disappointed to find that their first questions where, 'Do you remember who I am?' and 'Why didn't you call?' I think I made amends with all of them, although it took quite a few hours, many cups of chai, and many more assurances that I would call them next time, to heal the wounds. Ack, always remember to keep your promises to village women. Always.

All I got for now. Very, very busy and very, very content.

Christoph's India Wedding

As I am sure many of you know, I planned my return to India and APV around my good friend Christoph's wedding. And those that know this info must also know about the peculiarities surrounding the wedding; so peculiar in fact, that the story has become my most favorite to regale.

If you have not had the pleasure to indulge in my regalement of Christoph's wedding, I will catch you up with the alegrabic equation below:

Chad + Christoph + UW Hindi Program + AIIS Hindi Program = Deep Friendship
Christoph + Brilliant Mind + Hindi = Christoph's Hindi Institute in Delhi
Christoph + Settled + Biological Clock = Desire for Marriage
Christoph + Cute Indian Gal = Crush
Crush + Christoph's Colleagues' Connections = Arranged Marriage for Christoph
Crush Being Muslim = Christoph's Conversion to Islam + Certain Medical Procedures
Sum of All = Christoph's Muslim Wedding! = च्रिस्टोफ की पागलपण

Now, this equation might be a tad confusing, and I entirely don't know what to make of my friend's very important decision. But I do recognize his incredibly thoughtful nature, so I am certain that the beauties and sacrifices of this union have been carefully measured and the gravity weighed. I can also understand the difficulty in meeting women in India given that in my two years in this great country I have made eye contact with only a handful of women, most of those coming from a celibate ashram. So, in a country where the majority of marriages are a compromise of parents, going through the proper familial channels to find a partner is still the norm. In America it is crazy. I guess this makes Christoph half crazy, but I still love the guy and support him wholeheartedly.

So I left England cultivating images of a beautiful crossroad of cultural celebrations and quite excited to see my first Muslim wedding. In many ways, I should have tempered my imagination, for it still was an Indian wedding, and I still quite dislike Indian weddings apparently no matter how white or Muslim they can get.

I shouldn't get ahead of myself, though. Upon arrival to Delhi, I discovered Christoph's flat/Hindi Institute had been completely taken over by quite interesting and compassionate family members from America. I really enjoyed getting to know these people a be privy to their quite beautiful encounter with Rani's (Christoph's wife) family. I was especially impressed how Christoph's father (who is one of my favorite people even prior to the wedding) embraced every aspect of the wedding experience, from hand feeding sweets to Rani's father, to Bhangra dancing with the reception's Yar contingent, to getting henna tattoos on his hands.

BUT, the rest of the wedding was filled with waiting, confusion, standing, paying bribes, offensive Imam diatribes, and a whole lot of dysentery, a lot of dysentery.

So Christoph is white, this should by now be established. There is a tradition in India for workers in the wedding service sector to ask for tips for servicing such auspicious occasions. Unfortunately his white skin effectively amplified this effect, making seemingly every person trying to get at his pockets. Some of the most memorable instances were when the bus driver that took the groom's party to the wedding ceremony in Jaipur asked for 11,000 rupees for a tip and hijra's 20,000 rupee demand. Hijras for those not as familiar with Indian culture, are castrated men who dress in drag and have a interesting place in Indian society. I don't know the entire background but I do know they are considered very auspicious for joyous events, weddings, new houses, etc. They are quite deft in finding such events and demanding exorbitant rates for there blessings. If you don't agree you get a curse. Apparently, you don't want a curse. Christoph got the two hijras to leave with a 500 rupee bill and a promise for more to come later. No curse for now.

Another interesting part of the wedding was the Imam that was arranged to oversee the ceremony. I later learned from a Muslim friend that there is a tradition for the crowd to give the Imam a small donation after the wedding. We had the privilege of having a very entrepreneurial Imam who saw a western audience as a prospective cash cow His way to woo us in his mind was to give a fiery, quite conservative tirade on how the world is converting to Islam. While most of us foreigners couldn't understand his hour long Urdu speech (thank God/Allah/YHWH for this), he did save arguably his most offensive bits for English. "I have been to Canada and the US. I have seen that most children do not know there parents' names, am I right?" Wah. The only enjoyable part of his time on the wedding platform was a song that he preformed brilliantly that has been etched in my heads ever since. "Sweet Medina, sweet Medina, sweet Medina, sweet Medina, very lovely." That was the chorus, sung to hypnosis for about five minutes. Every once and a while he would throw in an awkward tangent, "Medina very nice place for you and me, Medina is nice place and very green." Seriously, I cannot get the song out of my head.
In any case his plan backfired, not only did the Americans not pay him, or know that they had too, but Muslims in the audience did not as well.

Aw yes and the dysentery. Wedding food is infamous for production of gut explosions. Blame this on unsanitary preparation, mass production, and the way it sits out unheated for hours. I knew from the onset that I probably would catch something, but hours of waiting and standing does wonders for one's appetite, so I went in swinging, devouring plate after plate of biryani, delicately served to me by my three personal assistants (white people get the red carpet treatment at many Indian weddings). I went down, actually most of us Americans went down, even the iron belly of friend Luther, who prior to the wedding had been traveling around the tribal regions of Madya Pradesh, drinking the water, eating the food. After two days of unhindered sleep, a terrible fever and headache, and many trips to the loo, I recovered. I view it as an opportunity to work in my stomach preventing such problems in the future, but it was no fun. Especially when I wanted to spend time with the newly weds.

But if I had to do it all over again, I would. Christoph is a special dude and this indeed was a special wedding. It was such a pleasure meeting both families and in the brief moments that I got to share with Rani, she seems like a real catch, Great sense of humor, quite humorous and self-assured. I think that this arranged marriage thing just might work out. Rad.

My Only Photo of London...

Bmmr... Blame this to a load of dead rechargeable batteries, a wrong conversion plug, and a stingy me.

Wearing Ties and Washing Babies

Imagine with me, that I be an Oxford scholar: blue blazer coat of arms adorned on the right side, neatly ironed trousers, cleanly shaven, genteel speech. Well, first I would have to work on the accent. Apparently, I have been accused by a refined local of having the vocabulary, attitude, and accent of a sassy American black woman. I don't really know where that came from or if I agree, but in any case, I don't know if my tawdry speech would fly in England's premiere academic institution. In any case, while the prospect of going to school in England would have been laughable even a year ago, after falling in love with the UK and visiting the Oxford, it now does not seem so distant.

Craig Jeffrey is a fantastic scholar, the bulk of his work focusing on the underemployment of the young educated class of North Indian with particular attention to Dalit or untouchable class. His work has nuanced the conversation about the absolute utility of education as a development strategy put forth by my one of my favorite scholars, Amartya Sen.

Jane Dyson is a fantastic scholar. Her studies have focused on the work strategies of young people in the Himalayas drawn from a year and a half of very interesting field research following children out to the forest for collect lichen. She actually did her fieldwork quite close to the Ashram where I worked, just one district away.

Craig and Jane are married and both are at Oxford. Talk about your South Asia intellectual power couple!

Prof. Dyson and Jeffrey were at the University of Washington during my Hindi studies at the same institution and I was quite keen to work with them when I returned from my last trip to India. But, with budgets being slashed in the US, Oxford offered them an excellent opportunity to return to most prestigious college in their native country. Hard to pass up.

En route to a screening in Cambridge, I decided to try to meet the two scholars to talk about possible graduate work. They invited me to their home for what I had thought might be a brief and formal discussion turned into a quite pleasant evening.

After talking about their research, my academic interests, and possible programs, their one and a half year old son, Finn with his adorable mop of blonde hair and long, wrinkled face, wobbled out of his room after a nap. Then their little four year old bundle of joy, Florence, came bounding in from nursery school a little later, which pretty much extinguished our academic discussions. I quickly learned that two young children pretty much equals the entirety of your energy and attention.

But who cares, I got to play with kiddies! For some reason these children fell for my awkward charms and soon I was fishing in the pond with Finn and pushing Florence on the swing. Jane soon took her leave to go visit a friend and Craig was fast at work making dinner, so I was left to look after the kids. And let me tell you, Florence is no easy one to control, she knows how to get her way. And with her sweet British accent and button nose, it is pretty hard to fight it. So I spent the next half hour trying to keep Finn from wandering back into the house while keeping Florence occupied with a frisbee. Eventually, I had to convince young Florence the merits of going potty inside instead of in the bushes with only marginal success.

After supper, it was bath time for both the kids. While Craig tended to Finn, I was put on Florence washing patrol. Considering that I have never washed a child before in my life and given that my the parents of this child might be my graduate advisors, I found the experience a bit strange. But, you must admit that the level of trust place upon me during the first meeting is pretty encouraging for getting into the program. Or else they are vetting out prospective students unable to babysit for them.

After the kids were wrapped up in their jammies, Florence demanded that I read her a bedtime story which I did graciously, given the that picture book that she wanted was about children growing up in Scottish fishing towns (swoon!). When I finished reading the story and started making my goodbyes, Florence asked, "Are you going to be here in the morning?" I replied that I was staying in a hostel and would be leaving for Cambridge the next day.' Apparently, with my thick American accent, she thought I said I was headed to Sainbury, which is the local supermarket, and replied, 'Well after you bring back the groceries tomorrow, then could we play.' Cute. When I finally established that I would be leaving the UK soon, she said, 'You like it here, you will be back, and we will play.' After my couple days in Oxford, I wouldn't mind if she was right.

(PS- ignore any mistakes in the above blog. I started writing this in London but now am in India and have been awake for almost 45 hours now.)

City of JOY

Thank god for hair dryers. As I began to blow-dry the crotch of my jeans, dampened by cheap beer and a faulty couch, in a room full of uber-hip lesbian artists smoking cigarettes and dancing to Lady Gaga, I couldn't help but think about the contrast to the night prior. In my final night in Aberdeen, Rowan, her boypal, sweet little Avery and I enjoyed an actually overwhelmingly competitive game of playdough chirades and an early bedtime. Both experiences definitely had there merits: While I enjoyed the spirits and dancing in London, a couple hours spent chasing buses at 1am made me long for the early bedtimes in Aberdeen. Not to mention the consistent dryness of my trousers.

So I am in London now staying on the couch of my girlfriend's best friends brother, Than, who is in art school at London and has slowly become one of my favorite people on earth. Mildly flamboyant, super intelligent, and utterly lovable, sigh… Inspired by the mighty Than I have decided to adopt his nomenclature in describing the laurels of this amazing city; things joy/things not joy. Beautiful.

Here we go:

Things that are London joy:

- A sneaky collusion of all of Chad's joys!

My first day, I decided to romp around Brick Lane in East End. Stepping out of the Tube, I was transported into this weird 18th century Bangladeshi neighborhood. South asian geekout. check

Further down the lane, South Asia gives way to Hipster Haven and I stumbled upon this huge and amazing vintage clothes weekend market. Hip clothes shopping. check.

Adjacent to the market was a custom bike frame shop where I spent an hour gabbing about bikes and Portland to a very friendly tech. Bike geek out. check.

THEN, I grabbed a beer and sat down on the footpath to watch the parade of beautiful hip people seething and sauntering through the crowded streets. Public drinking. check.

THEN, I wandered through Rough Trade East, one of the best record stores that I have been to since Amoeba in SF. Music geek out. check.

THEN, I had THE BEST cup of coffee in my life prepared by the 2009 Swedish Barista champion. World class coffee, check.

THEN, I rounded out my day with an amazing photographic exhibit of 150 years of South Asian exhibits. South Asian Art geekout. check.

A joy explosion in the very first day.

- Good Ol' British History.

Yesterday, we went to Than's dashing and debonair boyfriend's presentation at the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Jordan whole presence oozes of academia, from the tweed jacket, dry wit, to his wide array of collared shirts and blazers and endless informative interjections. I absolutely love it. After the talk, which made the forty or so aristocratic housewives in attendance audibly swoon, Jordan took me on a walking tour of old London, the bits and pieces that I thought too pedestrian and tourist-y for my refined traveling palate. But checking out those spots with a very excited 18th century Art Historian made his kind of sightseeing actually really fun. I saw all the hits: St. Paul's Cathedral, Houses of Parliament, Buckinham Palace, St. James Palace, Westminster Abbey, Trafalger Square. You name it, a scholar told me the significance of it. Awesome.

Not London Joy:

- Lack of Grid System.

Damn those 10th century planners who did not have the foresight of a urban grid system. Any place I want to go to, I have to allot at least an hour and half of being hopelessly lost in these unintuitive, narrow roads. I bought a map yesterday and have found that it has only been of marginal help.

- That Chad Robertson doesn't live there. Oh how grand that would be!