Blasts in Hyderabad, I am Safe

I just got word that there was a bombing in Hyderabad. I am fine. I am safe at home, and I do not plan to leave until I receive more information. Do not worry. I will post again when I have more information.

My 6-Day School Week

Yes, that's right. Teaching in India is no holiday. I'll be earning my American salary over here. The first day of school went very well. A student in Class 9 who lives next to me guided me in the morning. I'll be taking a 7 (which in India really mean 12 adults, plus 2 babies, and 10 pounds of corn) person rickshaw in the morning, and then a bus back in the afternoon. They aren't pleasant rides, by any means--the roads are foggy with pollution, and at some points I think I'm being choked for air--but they are only 15 minutes each way, so I'll live.

I was greeted by hundreds of "good morning, ma'ams" when I arrived, and each day this week I've enjoyed the same. The day begins with a morning assembly when all the students line up in the courtyard of the school. It is entirely student-presented, with students leading each other in songs, students reading snippets of news reports and/or health updates, and students being recognized for outstanding achievements. My favorite part is the prayer that they do at the beginning. It is in Hindi, but someone translated it roughly for me. They are praying that their minds are open to the knowledge that they will receive today, thanking their teachers and family for their gifts, and hoping that they will be good and true people. I'm sorry, Americans, but I think India's got an edge on our pledge.

I then got my timetable for the day and started off to my first class. The greeting was enthusiastic, to say the least. On the first day I whipped out my world and USA maps and quizzed students on countries and cities before pointing out where I am from. Then I brought out some Vermont postcards, which totally amazed them. I'm teaching 6, 7, & 8th graders so they are still quite young and bright eyed. The 6th graders particularly stared at me dumbfounded when I explained that the Vermont mountains in the autumn were red, orange, and yellow. And everyone wanted to see the postcard of snow.

There are nine 35 minute periods in the day, and I usually teach six of them. I'm often assigned substitution periods, however, to cover teachers that are absent (no union here, by golly, just lay on the work!). I teach two sections of Class 8 and one section of 7 and 6. The textbook and accompanying activities are prescribed, and a syllabus tells me what stories and poems I need to cover each month. Each student has a little class notebook in which he/she writes the answers to the questions and then an activity book for projects. I actually think that I will have a certain degree of freedom once I prove to everyone that I know what I'm doing. On arriving, I got quite a few comments about how young I look, and on the second day the principal started demanding all of this paperwork from me. (Did he think I was a fraud?!) But classes went very well, and the other English teacher tells me that the students are already calling me their best English teacher.

It turns out that Indian students aren't as angelic as I was anticipating. I've certainly had to whip out my "firm teacher voice" a few times, particularly with the 6th graders. Most students are inherently motivated, but not all. By the end of the day I find myself pulling out old tricks to keep them entertained. One convenience is that I feel entirely justified in going off-topic to tell students about life in the US. And there's so much to tell! You know the excitement of making a new friend and getting to tell all of your funny stories all over again? It's like that except I've got an entranced audience of 45 eager to hear about basically anything I have to tell them.

On the first day I asked them to write a paragraph about what they know about the US. It was so interesting. The majority commented about how clean it was. Then they would explain how the laws were very strict there. They would then mention two laws--people are not allowed to throw garbage on the ground and people are not allowed to spit in the street.

American Girl

One thing I always forget about living abroad is how American you feel. Zeba made me feel most welcome in the apartment. I think she thought it was strange that I would come here alone, however. Within the first 10 minutes of meeting me, she told me that her 15-year-old daughter would sleep with me, if I would like. This was a sticky moment because I didn’t want to sound rude by blankly refusing the offer, but I also didn’t really want the company. As I thanked her profusely and refused, I tried to explain that in America it’s normal to sleep alone. She seemed to understand, but made sure that I had company right up until I went to bed. Not wanting to offend, I kept the door to my apartment open and the daughter, mother and maid went in and out all evening.

In addition to desiring some space, I also could not help but find the apartment filthy. I longed for some bleach. It wasn’t disgusting, but it was just not clean. Later that week I went with the daughter and maid to the store and tried to buy cleaning fluids. I asked for some advice, and they looked at me like I was crazy. "We don’t clean the floors." So I looked at all the bottles and bought three that said disinfectant on them. The daughter came in a few times while I was at work and commented, "You are STILL cleaning?!" It is my American Heritage, I told her.

This week I’ve gotten into the habit of taking long "naps" after school. This gives me time to do some e-mailing and correct some notebooks before getting overcome with company. The landlady is starting a Beauty Parlor on the roof, so the two employees also like to come and see me. They don’t speak much English, so we look at each other and smile. And then laugh. And then drink tea.

Home Sweet Home

I was very happy to finally arrive in my home city of Hyderabad, particularly when a smiling family of three greeted me at the airport. Rani is a chemistry teacher at the high school here, and she is my designated "facilitator." She has a list of responsibilities from the Fulbright, including taking me to local parks, train stations, and restaurants. Her husband Mani is an artist specializing in Ganesha, the deity that has an elephant head. They and their 7-year-old daughter came to the airport to pick me up.

Mani was too excited about the opportunity to be my guide. When they couldn’t decide what restaurant would suit my delicate stomach, he decided that they would take me home with them so they could cook for me. So on the way home he stopped at a shop and disappeared for a long period of time. He apologized for the delay and explained that they first show you the live chicken before butchering it. Although I wasn’t very hungry, it sounded a whole lot better than the dead chickens that hang around the outdoor market all day in the sun.

So I arrived in their cozy apartment and Mani continued to eagerly ask me questions and then just as eagerly answer them. After I had listed all of the countries I had visited, he asked me which was the most beautiful. Then he proceeded to tell me that Switzerland was the most beautiful. When lunch was ready, they sat at the table with me and watched me eat. I had been warned that this might occur, but it still felt very awkward, particularly because they served me a lot of food and I wasn’t particularly hungry. After a few bites of each dish, Mani would look at me and say, "I think it is too spicy for you" or "I do not think you like it." It was clear he was trying to predict what I was thinking, but he wasn’t very good at it. I told them I was not very hungry, but in India most things are not spoken verbally. Americans tend to be more blunt and open with their feelings and opinions, whereas Indian communication is much more beneath the surface.

This cultural difference became even more apparent after lunch at 3:30. Mani told me that they would bring me to my apartment now (finally, I was so anxious to see it!) and then they would pick me up later for dinner. Rani protested and said maybe I was tired and would want to unpack and relax. Her husband adamantly protested. "I have been with German and Irish people! They do not get tired!" The conversation went back and forth in front of me, and I looked on helplessly. I’m sure neither of them thought I would be forthcoming with an opinion of my own. To my chagrin, ultimately Mani won and I was to be picked up at 7:30.

But finally we arrived at my apartment and I lugged my bags out of their car for the last time (oh so many over-weight fees at the airport—it’s the curse of being an English teacher who wants all these books with her!). The landlady’s son greeted me with an English accent and helped me carry them in. Soon after, the landlady, Zeba, greeted me. I am living on the ground level of their house, and they live above me. The apartment was surprisingly large. After seeing Rani’s very modest apartment and hearing her apologize many times for it’s size, I was embarrassed to see the space that only I would be occupying--a large formal dining area, a good-sized living room with TV, a kitchen, two bedrooms with double beds, and two bathrooms with hot water and western toilets. All in all, it’s bigger than my house in Wallingford. I’ve decided to just close off the extra bathroom and bedroom. I don’t want to clean them anyway. My first move when I arrived? Put up the mosquitto net, of course.

Some Highlights from Northern India:

Realizing that monkeys are just another type of squirrel here. Or maybe they are more like raccoons, because you’ve got to watch out what you leave outside. In Varanasi there were signs all over my guesthouse that read, "Beware of the crazy monkeys!"

Watching the men dressed in orange arrive at the Ganges to fill their water vessels. Some of them had walked 70-90 kilometers barefoot, I was told. Not all were walking, though—the train stations were packed with orange-clad young men with decorated staffs.

Realizing that, despite the fact that this society is conservative in many ways, it is acceptable for men to pee whenever and wherever they feel like it. I was looking out of a train window as we left a station, and a man facing me just whipped it out and started urinating on the tracks next to me. A Fulbright alum said that he had seen a man peeing while bargaining with a customer!

Deciding to question my new Indian friend about his shirt that read, "Sinner." This was at the Hill Top Restaurant in Fatehpur Sikri. I had been having a conversation with the soft-spoken man who seemed to own the establishment, and I just couldn’t get over the black, sequin shirt he was wearing. He had no idea was "sinner" meant, and I hope he continues wearing it now that he does. I thought he would be amused, but he took the illumination quite seriously.

Discovering that each city would bring a new kind of hustling and con-artist. New Delhi--at the monuments people would come over and start telling you about the tomb; after guiding you for 5-10 minutes, they would expect money. I learned quickly, but it still felt strange to bolt away from someone when he approached you saying, "This window is in the Moghul style. . ." Agra--the rickshaw drivers were crazy to get a customer here. Even after saying no, they would often follow you for a few blocks, just to be sure. Varanasi--there were tons of friendly people who would help you along the way and then try to bring you to a shop—silk, carpets, tailors, etc. In many cases young boys were sent out to gather customers. I found these people to be the least aggravating, because I would just take their card and promise to come back later. (Although there was one time that I came out after having an hour lunch to find that my young guide was waiting for me outside!)

Witnessing the strength of people who look so frail. I swear, the oldest and skinniest men are the ones pedaling the bike rickshaws. And they charge less! One man offered me a ride for 10 rupees (about 25 cents). Then there are the women with bushels of greens larger than themselves on their heads. I couldn’t believe it when I saw women stacking brick after brick on their toweled heads.

The Northlands: Haridwar, Musoorie, Rishikesh, and a Ride to Hell

At this point in the trip, I was feeling the need to visit a smaller city and get out into the country. I decided to carry through with my original plans to take an overnight train to Haridwar. Although it ended up being about a 24 hour train-ride, it was well worth it. When I got off of the train I knew I would like Haridwar, because the wave of heat and humidity did not hit me. It had been raining in Haridwar, and the temperature was so bearable that I decided not to pay extra for AC in my room. I signed up for a nature safari for 3 pm, but when the time came around I was happy to meet up with the first American tourists that I had met so far. DeAnne and Geoff were two friends who were travelling around north India before going to a wedding in Mumbai. When our safari had to be rescheduled for the next day, the three of us decided to take a cable car to the local Hindu temple.

How nice it was to have a man around! He stood in the crowded ques and guarded us from stray hands and fingers. The temples were crowded, but we still made the rounds, splashing through muddy water in bare feet on the marble tiles. The next day our safari was again postponed until 3. Heavy rains had made the roads unpassable. After the 24 hours of anticipation, the safari was a little disappointing. We got to ride in a cool jeep and we saw some animals--deer, peacocks, a little owl, but no elephants and no leopards. It was nice to get out into the country, and we met a nice Swiss girl who had been living in an Ashram for 2 months. She's featured in the jeep photo.

The next day DeAnne and Geoff and I decided to go on a day trip to the hilltown of Musoorie and then to Rishikesh, the yoga center of India. We hired a car and driver from the tour agency, and started off at 7. I knew when I first saw the driver that we were in trouble. He was young--always a bad quality in drivers of young, female tourists. And he drove like he had a few frustrations.

I've driven with some crazy rickshaw drivers, but this guy was the worst--weaving in and out of cars and bikes, refusing to yield to school children on the side of the road, making death-defying risks while passing. It was bad. And I was in the front seat, so the responsibility lay with me to keep him in control. I told him a few times to slow down, and he smiled and nodded. Soon I realized that this man knew no English. I couldn't believe it. We paid good money to go through a travel agency, and he couldn't even tell us what time to meet him. But I somehow got my point across that he was going too fast, and he did slow down slightly.

Just in time to begin the climb up the foothills of the Himalayas! Poor DeAnne had her head burried in Geoff's shoulder at this point, and even I was a little nervous because the little roads were hairpin and the guard rail more decorative than functional. But we made it, and it was cool and foggy and there was no view. But we wandered around the town for a couple hours and noticed how the people here seemed to have a Nepali flare to them. We took a quiet bike-richshaw around the town, which is featured in one of the photos. On the ride down the mountain, the driver seemed to have a will to live, thank goodness. Unfortunately, I was suspicious that I was inspiring his will to live, but I figured that he could nurse his fantasies if they helped me and my two friends survive.

I was not counting on what lay ahead for us, however. The ride down went quite well, and the clouds lifted for a time and the mountains were lush and rugged. We then continued on to Rishikesh, but it was getting late and it was raining hard. We were hoping to catch the evening Hindu ceremony on the Ganges, but the river was high, it was pouring, and our driver told us the wrong time. So we really didn't see much of Rishikesh, but we had dinner and dipped our hands in the Ganges one last time.

We met the driver at 8 pm, ready for the 45 minute journey home to Haridwar. When we walked up to the car, we saw that the driver had taken off his shirt and was wearing only a strappy undershirt; I couldn't bear it, and Geoff graciously offered to sit in the front seat. We took off, into the forest between Rishikesh and Haridwar. It was pouring and the going was slow. At some points I would look out of the window, and it looked like we were driving up a river. DeAnne said that the water wasn't that deep--that it was just spashing up--but the engine of that little car was working it. I was afraid that we would break down and be stuck there with this insane man of a driver.

After about 30 minutes, the traffic stopped. A tree had fallen, and we were waiting for a road crew to come and cut it up. We tried to keep our spirits up. It was going to be fine. No matter that we were in the middle of nowhere, with a greasy driver, and it was hot and muggy, and we couldn't roll down the windows because it was pouring. I was just thankful I wasn't alone in this situation. But then, ooooh, no. I couldn't believe it. The driver leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head--oh, the stench. It was, quite simply, awful. I almost laughed, it was so bad, but I didn't want to open my mouth. Poor, poor Geoff--the saint! He saved me that night, I think.

An hour later, there was movement. Thank goodness! We drove a ways, passed some trees, and I thought we were in the clear. I was so relieved because I had a 6:20 train to catch the next morning. But no, the traffic stopped again. What was going on? How long would we be waiting? We had no idea, and the driver just sat back and put his hands behind his head again. I finally rolled down my window and entreated the people walking by, "Do you speak English?!" Finally, one person communicated that there was a tree down. But we did not know how long it would be. Two hours passed. We were getting desperate at this point. We begged our driver to call the woman from the travel agency. We had to speak to someone in English! Should we turn around? How close to Haridwar were we? Could we walk? At this point people behind us were starting to walk past us with their possessions. I rolled down the window again. "How long?" One person said that the road would not be cleared until morning--could it be true? Could the road crews be off for the night? After sitting for 3 hours, we finally got ahold of the tour agency woman, and she assured us that the road crew was coming, and that we should continue on to Haridwar.

An hour later, we started moving again. The fallen tree was about 100 meters away and within one kilometer we miraculously passed a stately 5 star hotel. Where did that come from? But we safely made it home that night, and I easily caught my 6:20 train, which was late and turned into a 10:30 train--but I didn't mind. A late train seemed like a blessing that day.

Varanasi: Where Life and Death Meet

People say that Varanasi is the place to see the extremes of India. Varanasi is one of the holiest cities in India, and it is an auspicious place to die. Since I was only going to be in Varanasi two nights, I decided to stay in a guesthouse right on the Ganges. Ghats line the Ganges, and thousands of people use the river for a variety of purposes. That's what I found so amazing about it. From my balcony, I could see holy men performing religious ceremonies, young men soaping up and taking a bath, women washing laundry, and children canon-balling into the water in play. In the midst of all of this life, workers are gathering wood to cremate the dead. The ashes are then swept into the Ganges. It's incredible how efficiently the whole process is carried out. One man was telling me that they have calculated exactly how much wood it takes to burn a body, as well as how long it takes--3 hours normally and 1 hour in the electric burning ghat.

Babies, pregnant women, and people with leprosy are not cremated. Instead their bodies are weighted with stones and dumped into the Ganges. Later these bodies bloat and float to the surface where they are eaten by birds, dogs, and other animals. I actually saw one of these bodies when I was sitting on the ghat steps outside of my guesthouse.

Experiencing Varanasi in all of its colors was certainly a highlight of my trip. Whenever I stepped out of my guesthouse, the smoke from the next door burning ghat reminded me of the potency of this city. The streets lining the river are very narrow, and they are crowded with cows, goats, holy men, and people simply living. Even rickshaws can't fit down the narrow alleyways, so it's relatively free from horns and motors. Varanasi is the city sacred to Shiva, and the roads twist and turn like a cobra, one of Shiva's sacred animals. At first I was scared to venture far from my guesthouse, afraid I would be lost in the depths of the city. But then I realized that getting lost was part of the experience. And so I let go and walked the streets at random, allowing my curiosity to guide me and knowing that the card of my guesthouse in combination with a few friendly strangers would safely lead me back.

You can see in the photos above the sinking Scindia Ghat, near where I was staying. Then there is the view of the nearby ghats, one of which is the burning ghat. Photos of the funeral pyres are not allowed, but you can see the smoke from them. Finally, I've included a shot of some of the people coming to the river to bathe. Overall, I'm very glad that I visited Varanasi. I was slightly frustrated because I could not really sit on the steps to the Ganges and people watch. I tried at one point, equipped with a hat, dark glasses, and a book. Within five minutes I looked up and a crowd of 20 young men were surrounding me. I managed to escape by telling them that I would take their photo, so they needed to back up. After quickly taking a shot, I made use of the space and took off. Ah, the tricks you learn as a woman traveling alone through India!

Agra

I was lucky enough to get a guesthouse with a roof-top restaurant with a close-up view of the Taj Mahal. After an enjoyable air-conditioned train ride, I got in around 3. I thought I'd have a leisurely walk around the Taj Ganj area before having dinner enjoying the sun set on the Taj Mahal. Well, I had a walk, but it certainly wasn't leisurely. The moment I stepped out of the guesthouse, people were calling to me. "Hello madame! Rickshaw! Postcards! Internet! Tour! Only 10 rubees!" I seriously hate the cold person I am becoming, but it is impossible to do anything without blowing off about fifty people. The cold and firm demeanor was getting to me after awhile. Since I'm by myself, I don't really break out of it. I really start feeling ugly and mean. Well, maybe I shouldn't say ugly. I am told at least 20 times a day that I am beautiful. That's not so bad, I guess.

The other reason why walking around Agra was not leisurely was that it took a great amount of effort and concentration to succeed in not dying. I don't mean to alarm you all, but I haven't seen a sidewalk yet and the rickshaws, motorcycles, bicyclers, cars, trucks, cows, dogs, camels, etc. make quite an obstacle course. There are no rules on these tight roadways. Vehicles stay vaguely on the left side of the road, but they will veer for really any reason. Remember the little trial driving games you played/watched in Drivers' Ed? This is that demonstration magnified 61 times. Seriously. I figured it out.

I did have a lovely evening meal on the roof-top, however. Unfortunately, the water cooling system in my room did not really work, because it stayed around 92 degrees in my room during the night and the humidity made it unbearable. Being a warm sleeper in India is not a good quality. After not much sleep, I was still motivated to get up at 5:45 to beat the heat and crowds at the Taj Mahal. It was also sunrise, which made the lighting quite lovely. I'm not sure exactly what else to say to describe it. I've always been more of an expository writer rather than a creative one, and trying to impart the magnificence of the Taj Mahal is very possibly past my abilities. I think in the face of such excellence I simply resort to empty adjectives. Just look at my report of it so far--lovely, magnificent, excellent. Very poor, Ms. English Teacher, C-, and I'm being kind.

After a bit of breakfast, I gave in to one rickshaw driver who offered to take me around to see some of the local sights. One of the big tourist draws in the area is actually a little town 40km west of Agra called Fatehpur Sikri. I went there first to see this fortified ghost city that was the short-lived capital of the Mughal empire between 1571 and 1585. The rickshaw driver warned me many times to beware of the "guides" who want to swindle you. I understood, and deftly swatted them away as I entered the deserted palace. I was just sort of wandering when a man about my age came up and started telling me about the chamber I was gazing in. I broke into my "not interested" tone, but he persevered. After making it clear that I wasn't going to pay him, I let him walk me around the ghost city. I had no idea where I was or what I was looking at, and it was quite nice to have a friend.

He was a good host, and when I said I was starving he brought me to a nice restaurant up on a hill overlooking the countryside. I bought him a drink and some naan, but that's all he would accept. He asked me if I knew any other languages, and I told him I knew some Spanish. He then proceeded to talk to me in Spanish, which really confused me and also tested my honesty (I think I did alright, Profa!). He told me that he had been to Barcelona and was trying to go back, but his visa was being held up. He said that if he got his visa, he would probably not return to India. I asked him what his profession was, and he dropped his head when he told me he worked in his brother's shop. I felt for this poor young man. I mean, I know that he was trying to come on to me, but I could certainly understand his limited position. I felt badly when he wrote his friend's number down in my notebook (because he doesn't have one), and I feel worse looking at it now and knowing I'll never call him.

After leaving Fatehpur Sikri, I told the rickshaw driver to take me to Akbar's Mausoleum at Sikandra. This sandstone and marble tomb was quite impressive, but the real reason I wanted to visit it was because of Lonely Planet's promise of a "peaceful garden, where deer graze, monkeys play in the trees and raucous peacocks and parakeets also make their presence felt." I didn't see any of these, but I took advantage of the lawns. Have I mentioned lately that it's hot here? Maybe I should just reiterate that I am sweating profusely at this time in the story and at this time in the present. I am a sticky mess--but, remarkably, I'm apparently still beautiful!

So I was tired at this point. And hot. And dirty from the dust that I picked up during the 80km rickshaw ride. (Very, very stupid idea on my part. I will never do that again.) And the driver told me that Agra Fort was not worth 300 rupees. He would show me a good view from the outside, and I could take a photo. So I relented. Then he said he would take me to see other places in the city. I was immediately suspicious (as everyone should be when travelling in southeast Asia, Ian and Adam!), and I told him firmly, "I do not want to buy ANYthing." He said, OK, and took me to a carpet-making factory. I can't believe I actually went on the tour of the facility, but it was actually kind of interesting and I got to tie a knot on a fancy Indian carpet. And, of course, the tour ended in the air conditioned showroom where numerous carpets were laid out for me to buy. Feel free to be disappointed in me, my worldly friends, but I gave in and bought a little piece of carpet (and I mean little!) that was made by the local school children. My only excuse is that I'm a teacher and . . . I like children. . .? Does that work?

So then I was mad at my rickshaw driver, and I told him to bring me back to the motel! I needed dinner! Despite my orders, he took me to another shop. This time I refused to go in, and he was forced to give in to my demands. And at the end of the day, when he dropped me off at the train station, he had the audacity to ask me to write in his little book. "Write what you feel!" he urged me. Ha!

But, I made it to the train station on-time, and I had few complaints. The whole night before I had been longing for this moment--an air-conditioned train-ride in a sleeper car. This would be the best night's rest I had experience since coming to India.

And where was I headed? Well, one of the holiest cities in India, of course--Varanasi.

Arrival in New Delhi

I knew my air luck would improve; my flights were clockwork-like. And so I descended upon New Delhi at 10:30 pm to be greeted by a sign with my name on it. After thankfully relinquishing my baggage and getting some rubees from the ATM, I emerged into the extraordinary heat of New Delhi--OH MY GOSH, it was so HUMID. I seriously swam to the awaiting air-conditioned van.

The streets of New Delhi seemed oh so familiar--Thailand has just about the same lack of sanity. They took me to the USEFI (the Indian counterpart of the Fulbright) guesthouse. This place is practically in the center of New Delhi, and I felt like I was in a compound. . . well, maybe I should say a palace compound. There was a big, white, iron gate in the front with armed guards 24-7. Then inside there were nice gardens and 3-4 story buildings, all white-washed and new looking. I stayed in a nice room with air-conditioning and hot water.

So I thought I really had the whole jet-lag thing beat. I was going to basically lose one good night's rest on the journey (I was allowed to sleep during the first half of the flights only.) Then, since I'd get in after midnight, I'd sleep in until about 9:30 and be on the Indian schedule. No problem! Well, India had another idea. Because this relatively nice guesthouse comes with breakfast; and in India, you have breakfast when they tell you. So, I woke up at 6:30 to vigorous knocking on my door. After quickly throwing on a sweater, I opened the door to try to explain that I had just flown in, and I needed to sleep more. "Could I have breakfast later?" The neatly dressed man frowned, smiled, and then indicated that I should sit down while he made me eggs and toast. I knew better than to argue, so I obeyed.

The problem with being in a compound is that it makes you scared to leave. I went to the building next door to meet the head of the Fulbright program in India, and she greeted me with a big hug. Then she listened to my plans for touring the country quietly before proceeding to warn me about all of the hazards that I would encounter. Then she directed me to her travel agent to help me with my plans.

The travel agent helped me find a train to Agra the next morning, and scheduled a car to take me around the sights of New Delhi. Of course, it was Monday so many of the monuments and all of the museums were closed, but I went around and saw some of the lesser-known sights. These included Qutb Minar, the largest stone tower in India and begun in 1193; Humayun's Tomb, whose design was to be refined later to create the Taj Mahal; a Sikh temple; and a Hindu temple.

The Sikh temple was my favorite. At the first two places, people harassed me constantly--offering to be my guide, wanting to take photos for me, or just simply begging. Actually, the begging usually happened while driving. Little children (always children) would run up to the car when traffic was stopped. Sometimes they would perform a little dance or show off their flexibility, sometimes they'd just look at me with little, sad eyes and tap on the window. I've read that it's always better to donate to a credible charity, but it's hard when these kids are staring you in the face.

Anyway, back to the Sikh temple. After building up an icy shoulder and a firm face, it was a relief to escape into a serene house of spirituality. People were chanting and clothes were being laid over the holy book. Before entering I took off my shoes and covered my head; then I found a place on the exotic carpet to kneel. It was a circular space and people would kneel for a time on the carpet before continuing around the circle clockwise. In the middle of the circle was a sort of shrine with the holy book as well as two people chanting. It was lovely.

New Delhi is certainly nothing like Bangkok. Bangkok feels as modern as New York, but New Delhi is much lower and no skyscrapers dominate the horizon. It still feels like India, but I was anxious to get out of the compound and feel more independent. And so I took a train the next morning.

Orientation

After a harrowing experience flying into and out of New York City to get my visa (the flights that should have been on time were cancelled or delayed and the one that should have been late was early), I made it to Washington DC. And then I was given a topnotch hotel room on the top floor with a view of the city, three fancy meals a day, and a free shuttle. I must say, it’s about time that teachers get pampered once in a while. The Fulbright even paid for an extra night’s stay at the hotel, because my flight was booked for Saturday. For once, I find myself praising the federal government.

The orientation went very well. I attended numerous workshops meant to prepare me for living and teaching in India, and, best of all, I finally met my exchange teacher. What a woman! Warm, sensitive, strong-willed, perceptive, and funny. I think she’ll do very well at RHS, and I have a feeling that the students will love and respect her. I’m sure there will be the student who will take advantage of the situation—“I wouldn’t have failed if I could only understand her!” But I found her accent very understandable, so I don’t think these students will have much of a leg to stand on.

Teachers were asked to prepare a presentation of their culture for the last night of the orientation. Our Indian teachers performed an intricate dance and then invited their American counterparts on-stage. Each Indian teacher then dusted a dot of red powder onto each of our foreheads in a form of blessing. Fatima was a little overeager with the powder and ended up dusting my nose as well, so I figure I was doubly blessed. I tried to attach a photo of Fatima and me shortly after the ceremony, but I'm having a little trouble. The computer here is set to German, and I'm not quite sure why it's not working. I'll have to work on that. So stay tuned

All-in-all the orientation made me anxious to arrive in India. Our Indian group was quite a clique during orientation, and we were easily recognizable by our friends’ gorgeous fabrics. I got quite a few comments from other Fulbrighters about what an amazing experience I’m going to have; after sitting with my clan during lunch, one woman actually expressed her disappointment that she was going to England. It was hard to say good-bye to the Indian teachers, because they were each such beautiful and unique people. But I kept reminding myself that they are just the tip of the iceberg. Onward to India!

Oh boy, I hope "vorschau" means "post"!