Like Like Dope

I'm sitting in a dank cyber cafe, pondering my departure tomorrow on my own. In the corner a trashy hindi game show is playing, and a few men are smoking rank cigarettes and laughing. And this is normal now. It makes me wonder what else I take for granted, things I see every day that were shocking on the first. So what shocked me today? As I was in a rickshaw being driven across town, we passed a large hindu temple where a bunch of elephants were gathered outside. Every couple days the elephants are there, and its my favorite part of the ride; im always tempted to flag down the driver and have him drop me off so I can pet and play with the gentle giants. Anyway, today I saw an elephant with tusks, and I completely forgot that they grew on elephants. They are so valuable that it is rare to find them.

What else. I bought a watch in the market today, realizing I had not really kept track of time for the last month, except going along with others that were doing so. Anyways, I felt like I got ripped off on an imitation sony watch, which I payed about a dollar for. I know the American economy is plunging, and standards of living are dropping as gas, milk, and heat all become a larger expense. Still, I wonder where our priorities are. I know I will go home in a month and walk in my suburban neighborhood. Everything will be spotlessly clean, including the sidewalk and road itself. There will be no garbage to be found, and everyone's grass will be freshly cut and green. I am not saying that our economy isn't struggling, but I think maybe we should prioritize to focus less on appearances.

I have found that when I walk on the street, if a person is not poor, then they may be better dressed than I am. In India, appearances are important because it shows you can afford to pay for a shiny belt buckle or button down shirt. If you can afford hair gel and a comb, you spend (too much) time in front of the mirror. And I simply wander around in a cheap t shirt and sandals (and pants). But people seem to spend their money on what is important, despite current fashions (which I think are kind of worthless, but never going to disappear). How do we stop consumer culture when its all we know? We should be spending money on food, clothing, and cigarettes, like indians do. I guess being abroad has just changed my concept of necessity.
Still, we have everything that is important in America: food, shelter, and family. Why do we need expensive furniture which we have only for the couple days a week we have guests? It just seems like we have nothing real to complain about, so we find something mundane.

And i also think about how everyone at wes and in fashion is skinny. like emaciated skinny. And these are the more wealthy people in our society, who can afford to eat food without any calories in them. Well guess what, here, fat is in. Cause it means you can afford to eat. Being called a skinny boy is an insult. Sure, people are getting fatter as the mcdonalds and subways roll in, but that is expensive food here, not cheap like it is in the states.

So what am I saying? The rest of the world thinks we are doing ok. I really don't mind being cheated out of a handful of rupees on every interaction, because I wear clean, unripped clothing, and know when my next meal is coming. So, I'm thankful. Why is the US less devout than some other countries? because we have things to turn to other than religion. Many here are extremely religious, and I understand completely; justice and equality are not so much to ask for, and one must beleive in redemption if they are to continue struggling. Religion takes inward reflection, which means self-evaluation. And its easier to look at others than oneself.
Am I promoting religion, no. But I do beleive in faith.

Since We Last Spoke

There is much to write about; the last week has been a growing whirlwind of inspiring conversations and moments, along with its dreary and difficult sun-baked tasks and obligations. However, first I want to spreak of a new source of inspiration, the NY times bestseller Three Cups of Tea.

Over the last month, I have questioned many times my objectives in traveling and volunteering abroad in India. Being delegated to mundane office tasks, and spending time reading the news onlineat work did little to fuel the dwindling fire of passion for "exotic" or "moving" work abroad. I see the poor and suffering every day, whether it be people sleeping on the street, or emaciated cows eating trash, or charity kitchens where the undernourished squat, waiting for their turn to eat, that is if enough rupees are donated by passersby on that given day. But there seems to be little connection between my actions and change for the better.

Well Greg Mortenson's life story of establishing over fifty schools in rural Pakistan and Afganistan almost singlehandedly reminded me of the difference one person can make. In Three Cups of Tea, Dr. Greg, as he became known to the men, women, and children of nuerous treacherously balanced villages in the peaks of the worlds most isolated mountains, drifted in the wrong direction after a failed attempt to summit K2. The village he stumbled upon, and the promise he made Haji Ali, Korphe's cheif elder, moved Mortenson from climbing mountains to moving them. He promised to return the following year with the money and supplies to build Korphe a school.

Throughout this suspenseful read, Greg befriends everyone in his path, including Tom Brokaw, descendents of Ghengis Khan, and taliban warlords. This is a must-read, and it painted beautiful scenery for my imagination as I work my own path towards the Himalayas.

I just booked my train ticket to New Delhi, where I will start my adventure. From there, I will take a bus to Shimla, with plans to continue on to Manali and Dharamsala, the home of the Dhali Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. There is also an amazing buddhist festival during July in the northernmost state, Ladakh. However, I plan to spend most of my time in Himanchal Pradesh, where I can hike, meditate, meet a ton of Israelis, and open my eyes.

The moment I booked my ticket was the most terrifyingly alone I have been in my life. Here I am with four friends, and even being surrounded by them still I want to curl into the fetal position making myself safe. The image of cold mountains is desolate, as is negotiating India's rail system alone. It is easy to be picked up in the sand storm of loneliness and self-pity that accompanies it, especially while traveling. After a single day of contemplation and reading my guidebook, I was amped. This is an adventure of a lifetime and I hope to treat it as so. With a few backpacking lessons in the bank, and more to come, July first calls my name. And after the Barcelona bus station (where my day pack was stolen by an african-immigrant based theiving team), I won't fall asleep on public transport without my bag under my arms.

So if you haven't figured it out already, I no longer work for SPRAT. Over my time there, Mr. Johwer (my boss) and I did not always see eye to eye, mostly due to cultural differences, where our opposed personalities did not extinguish the growing tensions. In my final moments with SPRAT, I was disappointed to leave my great coworkers, but proud of the way I lived my beleifs and took a stand against motions that challenged them. While in the future I may not always have this luxury, my actions left me smiling that entire afternoon, knowing I showed myself and my American coworkers/interns respect.

My day today was pretty gnarly (yeah, total pipe dream, brah!). I woke up today, finished the aforementioned book, and after some lunch caught a rickshaw for one of the first times with my butchered hindi carrying me without a hitch towards the Jami Masjid. It was not the first time I had been to a mosque, but certainly my first time praying at one. Nadeem had invited me along for the most important and well-attended prayer of the week, friday afternoon.

After kicking off my thongs and briskly walking across scalding hot marble, I proceeded to the central washing station. If I was going to pray, surely I had to wash first like everyone else. Gingerly approaching the wash basin turned fish pond (with fish food floating liberally on the surface), I took a seat in the ring surrounding the water on one of the only free stools. I proceeded to wash my feet and hands (right and then left), and finally my face and mouth.

Eyes turned to watch the last stage; surely this white boy at a crowded mosque won't rinse his mouth with pond water. Well, the mouth is a muslim's most holy body part, as it issues prayers to Allah, and I proceeded to brush my teeth with my fingers. I then stood up, feeling surprisingly refreshed considering I was facing a possibly grim 24 hours with my innards, and bumped into Nadeem.

The 500 year old mosque we sat in (built in 1412, to be exact) must have been full with over 5000 men, and a few women towards the back. While I didn't catch a word of the sermon delivered in Urdu, the beautiful melodic wailing that followed from the cantor figure was mesmerizing. After this, individual prayer began, and I stumbled through following my neighbors in bowing and putting my forehead to the floor, all the while reciting the Shema.

The Shema says that there is but one God, and I figured praying, no matter how it is done, is important, and it wouldn't matter that I was facing Mecca and not Jerusalem.

All I can say is what an experience. Later that day I stumbled into a Jewish synagogue late, and still did not feel at home. Because I was late, I was forced to do much of the praying on my own, and stood and mumbled to myself at the back of the congregation of about thirty people. After a day of religious observance, I didn't think I did poorly, all things considered. It was at that moment I realized I was sitting on the women's side of the congregation. A tradition I have not regularly experienced in the states, I scurried to the men's side and avoided eye contact, continuing my praying solo style.

After a round of Shabbat Shalom's, I headed back to Jamalpur, dreaming of the feast awaiting me in a muslim home. Daal, chippatti, and watermellon never tasted so good; the only thing that could have been a suitable addition to the spread was matzah ball soup -- its good at every meal.

In afterthought, I had another religious experience today. In the middle of the afternoon in search of a cyber cafe I got my cheapest rickshaw ride ever -- three rupees. I guess being one of seven passengers is economical; hanging out of the driver's side front seat an inch from buzzing traffic would cause anyone to pray.

Disco Infiltrator

To walk down a street and not know whether you are being led to meet friends or to be robbed is an interesting feeling to say the least, and it is something I have felt twice in the last 24 hours.
The weekend passed relatively uneventfully until Sunday night. On Sunday, we were all going to take a public transport bus (a bad idea) and see the opening of another caravan center. These centers give free english and computer classes to the underpriviledged and and to date have educated over 6000 men, women and children. I hear it was a success and definitely an event to witness (despite bing in mostly Gujurati and Urdu), but I spent the day at home sick. It seems that I only get sick when I eat, so it is on and off. Keeping weight on in this country is proving more difficult than I imagined, so I am subsidizing my diet with as much soda and sweets (indians love em) as my stomach can handle.

Anyway, Saturday night Kamalbai (brother Kamal) invited us to a classical music recital in memoriam of a famous tabla (hand drum) player. Upon arriving, we slipped off our shoes and entered a freezing, packed room and sat on squishy mattress pads. The music was gorgeous. The first group consisted of a tabla player and two sarangi players (which is a fusion of cello and sitar). It seemed as though the two men were dueling with the beautiful folk melodies on their instruments; it was incredible how quickly they could escalate from a mellow vibe to an intense fervor of playing that could easily be guitar solos in a sold out ampitheater show.
I do not lie when I say I was disappointed when these performers finished after an hour of hard work; the vocalist that followed was talented, but did not hold my interest in the same way it did for most in the audience.

Ok, back to me being unsure about where I am walking. So Sunday night we are always full of energy, resistant to work in the morning. Instead of sitting in the house, I decided to take an evening stroll and do some street photography; Jamalpur truly comes alive after dark, when the boys and men sit outside on stoops, joking laughing and smoking. Whenever I walk around I get looks; some would say I don't exactly blend in. Pointing a camera at seemingly mundane things does not help. While I was stooped shooting a conglomerate of abandoned street bicycles, some teenagers called me over to them.

I said what the hell, I want to make some friends, plus I was sick of relying on Nina or Nadeem for communication. The kids were pretty cool, just some high schoolers and college kids wasting time on a summer night. It was full of jokes and taking shots at each other's masculinity. They eventually invited me to hop on the back of a bike and go to Ellis bridge to meet up with some of their friends. They said there would be girls there, and I could tell this was a big deal; girls are very shy and often not present.
I passed on the venture; sure the kids were nice, but I wasn't going to end up on a different end of town stranded without pants, so to speak. Still, that night I couldn't sleep.

So I stayed up reading and reflecting. In the morning I watched the sunrise and listened to the sounds of the city stirring from a light but deadening slumber. It must not get quiet until 5 or 6 in the morning, even then it is quiet for only an hour or so. Still, the starting sounds of milkmen clanging, women starting to beat laundry, and rickshaws honking at dogs and goats to clear the road is gradual, surprising, and then normal.

I decided to go out and see everything come alive myself. The streets are full of people sleeping on cots in full daylight; the only awake soulds are the school children, all in matching kurtas or belly-button high blue shorts, waiting for the schoolbus (a rickshaw piled high with other schoolkids). I always get catcalls like "Hello, what country?" or "Hey America". This morning a few old men gathered at some benches taking in their morning smoke called to me, and I decided to join them for a minute.

In the poorer areas there is much less english spoken, so communication is its own game. They had something they wanted to show me, though. I was led through an alley of shanties to an artists alcove. There was a man working on a gorgeous carving of the god Shiva on a totem-pole-esque log of artistry. I felt sort of helpless; why were they so eager to show me this art in such a poor area? Surely I could not afford any of the art, nor fit a totem pole in my suitcase. They said I was the first foreigner to see the artists' work, and it seemed like an accomplishment to them. This just made me feel more helpless. Sure, I took sculpture in high school and at Wesleyan and enjoy art, but I was nobody and I thought that was clear.

So I was full of grace (or tried to be) and after looking and thanking and promising to return in a few weeks when the present work was done, and finally bowed out. That didn't stop the crowd of semi-clothed children from following me most of the way out. The little ones giggle when you say goodbye in hindi.

No sooner am I walking back home do I see Yaqub and his wife on a scooter, out to do some morning errands. He is wondering what the hell I am doing coming out of a brokedown alley at 7 in the morning when I should be in bed. After an explanation and the following shake of the head, we continued on our ways. So that was the start to my day. Some breakfast, a nap, and work all followed. It may not have been the most exhilarating story, but it's moments like this I remember where I am and am glad I'm open enought to try and embrace it.

Room Games and Diamond Rain

The Mumbai Oddyssey begins.....

I sit on the third tier bed in our open-door A/C train car. It is amazingly quiet, and the only signal that we are moving is the gentle rocking back and forth of the car; its much like being at sea. When I laid down and curled under the covers, I was quick to notice my feet are the only ones on the train that stick out into the aisle. Its 6 am now, and our train gets in at 6:30; I am going to try to nap. This is going to be a long day.

... ................. ................... ............. .............

Today we met Rahat at the apartment. She is the president of the Women's Empowerment Front, and the first muslim woman I have met who has divorced her husband. Being the founder of an NGO and associated with many more in the Mumbai area, we hoped to pick her brain and learn something about the structure and power dynamics in these indian organizations.

We talked for hours aout where gender roles, religion, and civil liberties meet. What was so interesting to me in particular was the fact that even after divorcing her husband, Rahat still beleived that a man should have control over a woman to some extent, albiet very limited. While I think her definition of control is slightly different that what is brought to the American mind, there was still some aspect here which was twinged with traditional gender dynamics (on a side note, it took me a full five minutes to come up with that ambiguous phrase for fear of offending anyone. Thank you Wesleyan.). The conversation was very informative, and to say the least, thought provoking.

What was formerly known as the Prince of Whales museum was our next stop. Having left my student ID in New York (stupid idea), I had to pay 30x more than everyone else to get in. It held some ancient hindu and buddhist sculpture, indian painting, and tibetan jewelry and arts, along with some terrible 17th century european art. There was also some incredible ivory carvings from tusks of elephants. The entire surface of the tusk would have lattice-work adorning it, with intricate figurines carved within, compromising the core of the tusk.

Set in a beautiful old mansion or government building once built by the british, it seemed like a prime example of british colonialism in India; all indian culture, but english culture and language. Aspects of british culture are evident everywhere, but seem to be slightly hidden by the last 60 years of Indian independence.

From there we traveled to the Gate of India, a huge but somewhat unimpressive arch created by queen Victoria (?) when she visited India, a sort of gateway for her arrival and monument to her presence and the event. In the surrounding plaza were plenty of hawkers and stands, resteurants and cheap chatchke vendors. We stopped for an afternoon snack and a beer, and eventually made our way home for family dinner.

Following family dinner we decided to paint the town red and see some of the night life. After a few misteps (read fancy 30-somethings bar and creepy sports bar) we found the right place, a smokey club named Leopolds. Complete with a DJ spinning American music, a somewhat sketchy dance floor, and good indian bar food, it was exactly how we wanted to blow off some steam on saturday night. The one problem with Indian night life is that last call is at 12:30 and the bar closes at 1, unless the manager decides the night is fruitful enough to pay off the police and stay open until much later; it wasn't one of those nights.

Still, the end of the night came with dancing and one of the best interactions with an Indian we've had yet. As soon as the music ended and the bar was closing up shop, this large Indian man turns to us, noticing we are Americans, and decides we should all sing songs together. This was brought on by our continued protests for more tunes, and so we created them ourselves. The man bursts out into the Celine Dion titanic theme song wholeheartedly, and we can't help but join him. Upon the sad but entertaining ending to this song, he proclaims, "lets sing; backstreet boys, savage garden, ricky martin, anything!" I think we did one more, given not as epically as my heart will go on (but lets be honest, you can't be more epic than Celine Dion unless you are singing Bohemian Rhapsody or Don't Stop Beleiving). All in all, an exciting first day in Mumbai.

................. ................. .................... ...............

Saturday after a night out started way too early; I feeli as if being done with breakfast by 9 am on the weekend is a crime. But we had a big day ahead of us, starting with an hour and a half long train ride. We were going out to a wayward province to meet Rahat and see an orphanage. She has connections with many NGOs such as this one, but wanted to show us one firsthand to give an idea to what a volunteer, if sent her way, could accomplish.

The local railcars are a completely different experience than the long-distance ones; riding first class is a must. People take chickens and huge peices of luggage in second class, and it is often packed so tightly you could not even manage to get off at your stop if you tried. And the doors to the car don't close, so people can breath and hang out of the car. A sad looking little girl with a baby slung around her neck came on at one stop, and walked around singing a sad hindi song and playing the spoons with to rocks to the beat. Its sad to know she is probably part of a raqueteering bracket and will not be allowed to reap most of the money she begs.

The ophanage, Amcha Ghar (translated as Our Home), was incredible. IT was run out of a woman's home with her husband and their many pets. Susheela currently has 32 girls living with her, ranging age from 4 to 18 years old. Not all of them are orphans; some still have one parent who is a sex worker or of some other unsuitable employment. As we were walking up the stairs the girls were singing a song to us and they all came up one by one and said their name and the grade they are in; it was one of the most inspiring welcomes we've had yet. Apparently there are hundreds and hundreds of applications to get into homes such as this one and not nearly as much room; these girls were lucky to be hand chosen.

So the next 5 hours were spent playing with the girls. They immediately dragged me to the kitchen to show me their pet turtles, and since they only had two, they kept a couple ceramic ones in water to keep them company. Taking pictures and playing and laughing was one of the most happy, inspiring, and beautiful afternoons of my life. There was no reason to feel sad for these orphans, they were being well fed and educated, and surrounded by so many friends. One of my favorite moments was playing with clay with a 12 year old. We made everything she wants to eat and get as presents on her 13th birthday, wich is next week. Leaving was hard, and none of us looked foreward to the trainride home, but all around were thankful for the amazing experiences of the day.

Just Like We Break Down

Mheh...first day back to work. This past weekend we traveled to Mumbai and explored, with little monsoon issues. The previous week I was lying in bed, thats why I have been out of the loop. Something about the food and my body and me not liking it, resulting in a never-ending fever and other fun stuff. but I'm back and ready for some more.........

Hoodoo Voodoo

I just got back from my afternoon scooter ride with Piyush. Let me say that he must be one of the fastest drivers that the Ahmedabad roads have seen. Himanshu promised that the ride would be perfection, and it was close. It would have been perfect if it were not for a little accident we had with another scooter. The man yelled in hindi that Piyush couldn't drive, and this happening in the first ten minutes of the afternoon made me beleive him.

Still there is nothing like weaving in and out of cars, bikes, children and rickshaws at 60 km/hr. And when we were crossing a bridge in Ahmedabad over the river, I could not help but stretch my arms out and look up. Being unrestrained and squashed behind a small indian man driving way over the speed limit in the enveloping sunshine was one of the most freeing and enjoyable things I have done in a long time. And to top it all off, Piyush sang beautiful hindi songs under his breath as we rode; it was the perfect private soundtrack to the visual and emotional colorwheel that was my afternoon.

Our first stop was a caravan center. Caravan centers are classrooms in poor neighborhoods that provide the area with vocational and english classes, along with personal finance advice. The room, while dim and grimy, is still an incredibly valuable service to the community, and all are thankful. I cannot help but think of the American school system, where there is so much more offered, but so few students care to learn. All the children want here is a chance. Its as Himanshu said when I asked him what he does after programming at work. He said, "programming." Everyone is just trying to do a little better.
One of the most eye opening moments of the caravan center visit was when the manager, translated by Piyush, explained to me the history of the building. Painted white with blue shutters, window frames, and tile floors, it was easily one of the nicest structures in the area. Apparently it was a housing facility for those affected by leprosy only ten years ago. Reassured that there were no traces of it or lepers around (my ears shot up when I heard hindi hindi hindi leprosy here hindi hindi), it was explained that this was why SPRAT was able to afford the nicest building in the area. On the way out, the man joked that he could take me to a certain area and show me leprosy. I am still warming up to Indians' sense of humor.

Our next stop was a proposed site for another Muskaan (adventure) park. This consisted of an abandoned lot scattered with garbage, and a few goats looking for a morsel to eat. Since SPRAT has little money, I asked how they acquired the lot for free.
Piyush pointed over a brick wall at the ajacent lot. The odd smell I had noticed was eminating from a tall smokestack, and my vision was filled with the machinery and the image of a large, towering chemical factory. Surely having such an industrial polluter next to a childrens park cannot be a good idea. After inquiring about the health ramifications, I realized it was pointless. Free land was free land, and pollution is present all around the city, so why not at such close proximity? I do not agree with this logic, but it seems that I can do little to steer the NGO away from this.

Our last stop was the existing Muskaan park. What an incredible place. There are huge play structures, climbing walls, and ziplines for the neighborhood kids to play with, and all of it is made with recycled materials. All the free space around the city is dirty and filled with trash, except for this space. Upon arriving here, I understood the importance of creating play parks for kids. This way, kids can run and play and see green grass. They can play cricket without getting run over by a car or bike. And the kids love it!

Original Pirate Material

            Wheww.  Its Sunday, our one day off from work.  It is so nice to not be in a stuffy office, and I will always appreciate a two-day weekend from now on.  Today we ate some indian-styled chinese food.  Probably one of the wierdest cuisines I have ever had, just sweet sauces with noodles and rice and cheese, really not close to either culinary tradition.  Anyway, we went kurta shopping at the outdoor mall, and experienced the Indian version of Walmart.  While not nearly as large, it was still a force to be reckoned with.  Anything you need, at cheap prices, but hindi.  And I wonder what it will be like being white and wearing traditional indian clothing.  I get so many looks anyway (I think I am the tallest person in the country), that maybe this will tamper that.  Well, probably not.

         

      A few days ago we were wandering through an outdoor market, looking around and trying to find a cart with something tasty to eat.  Finding veg food on the street is harder than one would think, considering so many restaurants are veggie.  Vendors cook tandoori food in large brass pots on the street. These ten gallon containers have blazing fires under them, so you literally have to roast off your eyebrows to get your food.  But word on the street is its the best you can get; if you can make a living cooking, then you're in business. And its cheap!

          When we were leaving the market, I stumbled upon the only temple in Ahmedabad.  I had been looking for Magen Abraham temple for some time, but I could not find it.  Upon investigation, there was no Saturday morning service because it is a working day.  However, I did return to Havdalah services on Saturday night.  After talking to the kids outside the temple, I tentatively rang the bell on the gate.  I was let in, and a short, balding, brown man with a kippah on took me to his office and asked me a number of questions.  Upon finding that I was staying in Jamalpur (the muslim district), he doubled the efforts of inspection and I could see furrows on his brow.  Apparently there aren't many Jews from that area, nor was I to be trusted.  After leaving him some numbers and names, I was led to the sanctuary.

           I don't know what I expected from services, but it consisted of myself and four old men praying out of decades-old prayer books.  When it came time to drink some wine for services, we were given cold chai tea (Gujarat is a dry state).  Also, the eternal light was a real candle, and was lit as soon as Shabbat was over.  For those of you who do not know, Havdalah, the service ending Shabbat and welcoming the new week, occurs on Saturday night and allows observant Jews to renew regular behaviors.  While the service was short, I promised myself I would return and establish a relationship with the congregation.  

    

       I wonder how the Jews in Ahmedabad (about 300) actually arrived there.  Are they converted or traditional Jews?  What is the Jewish life like within Indian culture?  How are Jews treated among a community that has religious tensions?   From the Hindus and Muslims I have talked to, they have been incredibly respectful and interested in my religion.  However, I wonder if this is because I am a coworker or a guest.  Hopefully my continuing relationship with this little synagogue will begin to answer my questions.

           A few days ago we attended a "Citizens' Meet" after work "To Protest Against Charge of Sedition on Times of India & to Uphold the Freedom of Expression."  Last week the Times of India ran a number of articles detailing allegations of bribery, crime, and complicity with the mob against the new Ahmedabad Chief of Police.  The Chief, O.P. Mather, decided to file charges against the Times of India, including sedition, defined as conduct or speech inciting people to rebel against the authority of a state.  A few human rights organizations put together this meeting to protest the restrictions on free speech, presumably being used for stated "national security concerns." 

                     I thought I had escaped the shadow of overreaching and encroaching regimes on personal freedoms when I left the United States, but I guess not.  Perhaps the limitation of civil liberties is becoming more engrained in today's democracies around the world; in order for a government to maintain authority in an ever-globalizing political atmosphere, ideas and actions are being restricted.  Thomas Jefferson said that there should be a (political rebellion) every 20 years.  Its a shame such ideas have disappeared; it seems like there is little effect within the democratic system when one tries to exercise their rights.  And as a disclaimer, I am not encouraging or promoting any rash actions for any individuals, and do not take any responsibility for any resulting actions.  I also cannot be held to my own opinions and ideas, they may well change tomorrow.

      Anyway, the room was packed full of people and a sauna faucet must have been on in the small room.  Most of what was exclaimed was in Hindi, but the gist of what was said clamored for the corrupt government to be removed, along with the allowance of more civil liberties.  Even more so, people were upset at how there were little direct action to take.  There was no clear answer, but the presence of local paper and TV media could not hurt.  The meeting itself was empowering to watch and I am glad to have seen it, however sad in the sense that the urgency and pain painted on men and women's faces could not easily be erased.  

        

         Later tonight........dinner and Indiana Jones in Hindi.  Aujo (bye).

New Digs

My favorite new thing to do is cheering "USA" over and over again when kids ask me where I am from. Apparently the combination of cheap t-shirts, sunglasses, being over 6 feet tall, and the lightest skin on the continent earns some celebrity status.
My new friend Himanshu, the skinniest man I have ever seen, really loves high-fiving and so is glad to have Americans around in the office. He also loves the movie Independence Day, which I own on VHS. Obviously we were friends from the first moment. Vishal, another awesome dude, is teaching me hindi, and we read bollywood magazines together and talk about bad American actors.

Last night we went to the Rifle Club, which is essentially a glorified country club. The pool is probably the most beautiful body of water I have ever seen. The only thing that held me back from jumping in fully clothed was the heat lightning in the air.

Yesterday during work I went with my boss, Mr. Johwer, to the Indian DMV. He diplomatically shmoozed his way into an office, avoiding a three hour queue in the heat. While my boss chatted up the military-dressed official, Emily and I were served chai tea. All of a sudden the shortest woman I have ever seen burst into the office and started talking to me. At first I thought she was young because she stood at around 4 feet tall, but from the lines on her face this woman was over 70! She was quickly ushered out of the office, but only after shaking our hands. This country holds interesting moments around every corner.

In other news, Obama clenched the Democratic nomination today. I have to say it has been a tremendous turnaround for the senator, who at the beginning of the primary race had to defend his mere four years of senatorial experience. However, I will be proud to promote all that he stands for this fall. Its truly interesting that Hillary is still able to maintain the spotlight (she said she may take a VP bid if offered). Honestly, I will be disappointed with Obama if he does not break from the Clintons this electoral year. If he is truly Change you can Beleive In, then thunderthighs should stay out of things.

And I'm not sure if anyone else agrees with me, but there are unlimited numbers of stray dogs that wander the streets. The thing is, if you take the time to look at them, they are all beautiful. I guess animal shelters fall low on the priority list here; I am sure Bono will be on it soon.

What is happening?

 Not even I am sure.

      I wake up every morning in a cold sweat. That is in the air
conditioning.  I rise, pop a handful of pills, and gather my things.
Then off for breakfast.  Walking out the door, I already see women
washing clothing in the street, men reading newspaper and spitting red
tobacco.  Crossing the street is exciting: avoiding motorbikes and
rickshaws, and the stray cow.  The kebabs have already been cooking on
the grills at little stands, and men and children are wheeling carts
stocked full of fresh vegetables to the market.

   We arrive at the marble-floored home in Jamalpur, the muslim
district of town we are staying in. We slip off our shoes and enter to
greetings, chai tea, and the smell of eggs frying.  Some toast and jam
as well, and we slip out for the day's first rickshaw ride.
 All five of us pile in the back of one little open-air indian taxi
that takes us across town.  Weaving in and out of people, bikes, and
other cars, the traffic in India is much like a game of Mariocart, but
there is no open space.  The driver is very forward, and uses the horn
twice as much as the break. This ride, around ten minutes long, costs
only 15 rupees (there are 40 rupees to a dollar).

   Work consists of computer work, along with keeping a tempermental
boss, Mr. Johwer, happy.  The NGO I am working for has won a
prestigious award, it was titled the best small NGO in west India for
2007. Yesterday, the United States Consul General came to the office
to congratulate the staff and pay a visit. The American Interns got a
private meeting with him, and I sweet-talked Michael Owens (the man
himself) into setting up a meeting for the Americans in his office in
Mumbai (formerly bombay).
   In a few weeks we are taking a weekend to Mumbai to see the city and
network with other NGO's.  As a secondary mission to our journey in
India, we are networking with NGO's, trying to send more American
volunteers to this beautiful country through the IndoAmerican
Volunteers Network (which we founded this year at wes!).  However,
the monsoon season is supposed to start around this weekend, so we
will see how successful the trip is. Apparently it stops cities in
their tracks, and everyone stays indoors.

  We recently changed neighborhoods from Paldi (a mostly Hindu area) to
Jamalpur (a Muslim area).  Living with Mr. Johwer proved too
difficult. While the living arrangements were fine, the quarters were
a little close and Johwer is a strong personality to experience at
work and at home.

   So we moved into Nadeem's family's guest house.  It is a much busier,
congested area, and feels much more alive. We have the whole house to
ourselves, and will cook and have a great time. There is a rooftop
patio where you can see 360 degrees of the city; it is stunning.  The
other morning I awoke early and watched the sunrise; it came up over a
mosque in the distance that was announcing the first call to prayer.
Many of the city's inhabitants sleep on the rooftops; it is much cooler
in the open air than it is inside.


I must run, but tonight we are going to a resturant that has a rifle
club in the back.  What an unusual combination!

Namaste

Right now I am sitting in a cyber cafe in Ahmedabad, India; this is where I
will be spending most of my time.  It is truly an amazing place.  On
the walk here I kicked my feet through dirt, saw a dog sitting on the
roof of a car, all while having auto-rickshaws and bikes zooming around
me.  Oh yeah, and its 9 pm, the coolest its been all day at around 85
degrees.

After some minor complications getting to India (lack of visa, high
fever), I have arrived.  The flights were mundane, and my 9 hour
layover in London was full of reading, napping, and people watching.
Air India was not exciting in any way, except that I was one of two
white people on board.
 I had an interesting experience the minute I entered Ahmedabad
airport.  Upon filling out the required paperwork for entry, I did
not know the address of the residence at which I would be staying.
So I was led away from the counter (where they held my
passport)outside.  In my head I was worried; no one wants to be
separated from their passport in a place where they don't speak the
language.  They led me outside, where many people were waiting (it
is a small airport) and I found Nadeem -- our fearless leader -- who
finished my paperwork.  I then went back and finished going through
customs no problem.  Still, an exciting beginning.

Nadeem hired an autorickshaw (a three-wheeled electric open car) to
get us to where we are staying, Johwer's house.  The drive itself was
a crazy adventure.  Weaving in and out of buses, motorcycles, bikes,
and cars, we made our way through the delicious (sometimes) sites and
smells.  We even stopped for a coconut.

 The coconut stand we attended is apparently one of the best in the
city -- because they chill the coconuts.  you can have it filled
with cream or bottled water.  Being parched, I opted for water.
Once done, they slice open the coconut for you, so that you may
enjoy the pulp.  The coconuts here are not like they are in the
states, and have a delicious, wet inner lining that is meaty.

Upon arriving at Johwers, I took a short nap (a mattress under an
overhead fan, which are everywhere).  Then we went to the NGO office.
SPRAT -- Society for the Promotion of Rational Thinking  -- is on the
second and third stories of an undistinguished building. Since it is
saturday, (there is a six day work week here)we had a knowledge
meeting.  This entailed discussing local, national, and international
politics, social affairs, religious issues, and technology.
The Americans, which included myself, Rithi, Emily, Nina, and Nadeem,
talked about differences between America and India.  I talked about
being in New Orleans, and the poverty there compared to here.  Upon
finding out that I was Jewish, Johwer had me explain much of American
politics in regards to Israel and the fundamentals of the conflict
between Israelis and Palestineans.  All of a sudden I am an expert on
my religion! There are very few Jews here, but apparently there is an
old but still revered temple where services are held on Saturdays.
 Johwer was astounded at the amount of nobel prizes Jews have won.
Muslims have earned a total of six, that is one to every 240 million
muslims.  Jews have earned 1 to every 75,000 (by his
calculation).

So, I am hot, sweaty, and tired.  Apparently that doesn't end, and all
my friends say I look very fresh.  We are going to have dinner; food is
bought every day from a Jain family which cooks veggie meals and sells
them out of their house in tins.  It should be delicious and spicy; I
am thrilled to sweat  from something other than the heat.

So I am off!  Tomorrow is a day off, and I am taking it easy.  Everyone
says the heat and sun here is much more intense than you expect, and to
take it slow.  So I will.  Im taking my meds and am learning every
minute.