Ooty of the Mountains

Ooty is a hill station up in the mountains. It was where the English went to escape the heat, and it's where the well-to-do Indians now vacation during the hot, summer months. We went during the off-season, which meant that everyone wanted to sell us something and it was rather CHILLY. We went from wanting air-conditioning to building a fire to keep warm! It was actually quite cozy to have a couple of evening conversations around the fire. If we hadn't concluded the evenings by returning to our cold and slightly musty beds, it would have been better.

The town of Ooty was a bit of a disappointment. It had fallen to the clutches of over- development, and its old charm was overrun pretty completely. Luckily, the surrounding tea plantations were still lovely, and we hired a guide to take us around the countryside for a day.

We all felt quite at home as we tromped through the tea fields, up gullies, and through sheep pastures. At times I felt as if I was back in Switzerland, and Jessie commented that she felt she was in Ireland. The scenery was quite different from what we were used to in India. We stopped in a little village for lunch, and watched the man make tea. I was full of anticipation, since we were in tea country, but was disappointed by how sweetened the tea was--you couldn't even really taste the tea! But at least Patrick snuck a great shot of the man cooling the tea. Perhaps I should take this moment to comment that I am totally stealing all of Patrick and Jessie's photos from the trip for the blog. We saved my photos on Patrick's computer, and the back-up disk is not working for me. So I hope you're enjoying their quality shots!

As we passed through the village, children began trailing behind us. It still amazes me how fascinating we are just because we're lighter in color. They all wanted to kiss Eli and pinch poor Evan's cheeks, and Patrick was forced to carry him as a protective measure. Even some of the water buffalo were afraid of us because we were strange looking. In this shot you can see the buffalo staring Jessie and children down.

After a few days in the brisk, clean air, we were ready to move on to Mysore, a city that was working itself up into a festive frenzy for Dusserra.

Houseboat in the Backwaters

After negotiating about prices and bopping between a couple boating companies, Patrick finally got us a good deal on a 3-bedroom houseboat that would serve us meals and take us deep into the Kerala backwaters overnight. Jessie and I really got the best deal because we avoided most of the sweaty bargaining process by dipping into a local restaurant for some tea under the fans. Then, when we heard that the houseboat had been prepared, we followed the men carrying our luggage across the bridge, by the slightly-too-aggressive cow, and onto our luxury houseboat.

And we were off. Slowly puttering our way into the backwaters, which really don't feel too unpopulated, it turns out. Kerala is actually the most densely populated state in India, and thus it was not surprising to see houses precariously balanced on slivers of land between two large bodies of water. You can see one such sliver in the photo of Patrick and Evan, actually. A house was located right next to our docked houseboat here, and in the morning the inhabitants slowly walked by the houseboat, staring at us silently. It was quite uncomfortable. I guess I should be used to this feeling of privilege, but it just seemed too extreme when we had hired an entire boat with a crew of three for a "glimpse into the Kerala backwaters." Did these people feel like a cultural exhibit that I was paying to view? I actually hid in my room for a little while in the morning, because I was too embarrassed to face them.

But, in any case, we did get a glimpse into the lives of those who live on the waters of Kerala. And all I could think about was how jealous I was. Why couldn't I have been placed here?! Why did the Fulbright people put a Vermonter in one of the largest cities in India? I guess I came to India to get out of my comfort zone, so I shouldn't be complaining but . . . it was really nice in Kerala.

There were so many fabulous photos to be had, but the slow pace of the boat was just fast enough to make them hard to catch. Just to set things straight, Patrick did try to hire a punting boat, but it seems that these are being "phased out." Disappointing because it would have been more peaceful and environmentally friendly if we could have avoided a motor. Then perhaps I wouldn't have felt so guilty about all the raw sewage that we were contributing to the river.

The scary mass in front of the boat is actually a flock of ducks. Amazing? Yes, it was pretty cool.

The food on the boat was great, and our boat hands enjoyed taking turns bouncing the happy Eli. Patrick heroically leaped out of the boat at one point to venture into a local village and score Jessie and I a bottle of Indian red wine. It was sweet, which isn't surprising since Indians are quite famous for their love of syrupy items. Have I mentioned the sweets in India? We'll save that for a future post.

The houseboat stint ended too early for my tastes, and we were again on the road. A long travel day lay ahead of us, and it ended in a train station in the rain-soaked Coimbatore. The monsoon rains were coming down so hard that we had to hire a van to take us across the river of a road to our hotel which was right across from the train station. Then Patrick and I had a serious conversation with the manager of the hotel when he tried to charge us for a triple room, when what we really had was a double with a cot. I must admit that I was pretty proud when the conversation had reached a deadlock, and I said off-handedly that I would need to write Lonely Planet a little letter about the hotel they had recommended. A few minutes later we were walking away with what we wanted, and the manager was just oh-too-friendly for the rest of our stay. . . which happily wasn't long because we were off to hill station Ooty.

Varkala

When you live inland, any town that’s on the ocean is exotic; and we chose Varkala as our beach destination of relaxation. We deserved it. Yes, and we knew we deserved it. So we got two cute, little chalets on the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea and basked in Kingfishers (served in mugs because few of the restaurants here have liquor licenses) on the beach. That first night was golden—Jessie, you are so right—and we settled into our friendship and discussed things that were actually important. Evan made railroad tracks in the sand for three hours while we listened to the ocean and the stimulating conversation. It really is just too nice to sit down with people of common thought. I miss this in India. I’m just now feeling this in Rutland.

That three-hour dinner began a series of pleasant evenings that really made me settle into the trip; but that also make my empty apartment even more quiet now.

The next day we walked the beach and decided it was, although scenic, not so friendly to Western beacher styles, so we climbed the hill to a 5 star hotel pool where we could show some skin and not get carried away by the fierce rip tides. The hotel had a kiddie pool for Evan and Eli and an in-pool bar for the rest of us. Another tasty lunch later we were heading for a nap in the chalets before walking the tourist strip up north. Shopping paradise is what we found, particularly because it is the off-season so Patrick was able to negotiate his merry way down to some good deals. He enjoys it perhaps too much, but it’s pretty amusing to watch as he bargains over 25 cents.

We didn’t even reach the end of the strip before we decided to turn back and settle into one of the myriad restaurants that sport warm, red lighting and fresh fish displayed by the sidewalk. This place apparently had a liquor license, because my fancy drink came in a glass rather than a tea cup. Another lazy dinner later we rickshawed to our chalets and slept comfortably in the sea breeze.

But an early morning awaited us as we were to drive up to Alleppey to catch a houseboat into the backwaters of Kerela!

Fort Cochin

Normally I’d be a little embarrassed to visit a town like this while traveling in India. But this time I didn’t. I was tickled pink when we walked out of our cozy homestay and passed five groups of white folks on our way to a quaint English tea house. Sitting at our gorgeous wooden tree of a table, we sipped our tea while listening to three languages, none of which were Indian.

After lunch we threw ourselves into the tourist activities with gusto. First on the list was the series of Chinese fishing nets strewn along the Lakshadweep Sea. Using a system of counterweights, these large nets require 4 men to work them. I was mostly impressed by the large rocks that seemed to be precariously hanging high above our heads. I didn’t see any fish caught, strengthening my suspicion that perhaps these nets were more for the tourists than for the fishermen. But I could be wrong.

After touring Santa Cruz Basilica and relishing the change of scenery including Portuguese architecture and *gasp* sidewalks, we made our way to Jew Town. This street felt more Indian in that the roadway was packed with small shops containing merchants who received top marks in Harassment of Tourists School. Now, although we don’t feel like tourists after living in India for 2 ½ months, we still certainly look like them. After we had turned away, one feisty seller called after us that he would give us his, "Temptation Price!" which we thought was a great line.

Before going to a traditional Kathakali performance, we had to stop by the entirely comforting Kashi Art Café. Jessie and Patrick are fellow coffee snobs, and I think I can speak for them and say that this was the best coffee we had had since coming to India. And the chocolate and carrot cake was just icing on the larger cake of comfort.

At this point we were ready to sit for a couple of hours during the intricate story play that is Kathakali. The actors use facial expressions and hand gestures (mudras) to convey the chanted story, and drums provide the basis for the performance. Kathakali came into its form during Shakespeare’s time, and the costumes and make-up really augment the production. I must admit, however, that those people back in the day must have had longer attention spans. Sometimes an argument or battle would continue and continue. . . The ending was worth the wait, however, when one leader killed the other and proceeded to cut his enemy’s heart and entrails out with his fingernail and then wash his wife’s hair with the blood. Luckily Evan was already engrossed in his new auto-rickshaw so he missed this gruesome conclusion.

The next day we wasted no time. After eating at our favorite Art Café and stocking our body’s coffee supply, we took off to a Jain Temple, spice market, and St. Francis Church. Patrick may scoff when he reads that I visited the church as Jessie and I never actually entered. I’ll admit that we got slightly distracted in the process of bargaining for some skirts/pants outside, which seemed a lot more important at the time.

And then that afternoon, it was time to jump the train to Varkala.

October South India Trip

Sorry for the lack of updates, faithful readers. I should have mentioned that my school has an October break for 10 days, and I'm spending it blissfully traveling around southern India. But this time I'll not be bemoaning my lonely, female traveler state. The other Fulbright teacher in Hyderabad invited me along on his family vacation. So I've been having various adventures with Patrick; his wife, Jessie; their dear three-year-old, Evan; and the bubbly baby of 8 months, Eli. I thought I'd have numerous opportunities to blog during naps and tantrums, but this young family certainly doesn't slow down for much, if anything. We'll be returning to Hyderabad on Thursday, October 25, so I'll have an opportunity then to post many stories and photos of our adventures . . . including:

Fort Cochin: a Portuguese town on the coast
Varkala: the beachy, red-cliff tourist town
Allepeny: sporting houseboats in the backwaters of Kerala
Ooty: an overdeveloped hill-station in the gorgeous tea plantation covered hills
Mysore: a culturally rich, small city sporting elephant parades during Deshara
Bangalore: a short trip into the cyber capital of India

Teaching Techniques & Sarees

I'm really having an enjoyable time discovering the differences about teaching here in India. First of all, the students won't listen to me unless I act angry. In the US, I often use the "silent technique" of staring down my students until they quiet themselves. Here, that would never work. So I tried to tell the students firmly to be quiet. . . This didn't work very well either, and it slowly wore down my vocal chords. Finally, an edge of frustration began entering my voice. And suddenly, I got a reaction. So I used this technique a little more. Suddenly, every child was responding to my directives. In the US, I purposely don't let the children see my emotions. It encourages too many of them to act out even more if they see they're affecting the teacher. Here I have to act angry even if I'm not so that I get their attention.

It's also astounding to me how public shaming is used here. Naughty children are called up onto the stage during morning assembly, and teachers regularly viciously rip into the children. The other day I heard a teacher tell a parent that her daughter needs to lose weight, and the girl was standing right there! Instead of having a low self-esteem, however, I am continually impressed by how tough these kids are. They stand up and take the tongue lashings without even flinching.

I must admit, I'm using a bit of the shaming technique in my classes. . . Hey, while in Rome! And, confidentially speaking, it's sort of satisfying. For instance, if a student is day-dreaming or off-task, I'll ask him/her to answer the question that the class has been discussing. In most cases, the student can't answer, so I have him/her stay standing while I ask other students the same question. It's become sort of a game. I'll call on a few students that I know will say the correct answer, and then I'll go back to the weak student. Sometimes, he/she still can't answer so I'll call on a few more people. I don't allow the student to sit, however, until she/he says the right answer. It certainly puts the pressure on the student, particularly when he looks like an idiot when he still can't answer the question after it has been repeated 10 times.

Below is a photo from the morning assembly. KV Kanchanbaugh has approximately 850 students classes 1-12. They are in lines according to their class, sex, and height.

Today I wore a saree to school for the first time. Although I had learned how to wrap it the night before, I got insecure in the morning and asked my landlady to help me. I knew I would get a reaction at school, but the magnitude really staggered me. Everyone who saw me burst into a huge smile and congratulated me. I oozed with compliments. And I must admit, I did feel like a queen. Below is a photo of me with two of my favorite teachers. The one on the left is a physics teacher who doesn't take any nonsense from her students, and the one on the right is a Hindi teacher who giggles and squeezes my arm with delight every time she sees me in the morning. And please notice how I am NOT short in India!

Indian Classical Dance, etc.

I'm having a tough time writing this next post. Sometimes it just feels like everything is happening too quickly, and I can't step back and get a perspective. These days I don't get home until around 7:30 or 8, which is great for my social life but poor for posting potential. I'll try to briefly get my head around the last week for you all, however.

Dance. Indian classical dance! This is my life right now. When Indians want to be helpful, they are helpful to the extreme, and when a student and her mother found out that I was interested in learning traditional Indian dancing, they pretty much adopted me. I've been at their house basically every day for the last week. In case you didn't know, it's really very hard to say no to an Indian or to an invitation. And really my time here is all about saying, "yes" and I sort of have a rule that I don't say no unless absolutely necessary. I didn't really want to take on a second dance class, but I am now so thankful that I followed my yes rule.

So I've been learning a semi-classical dance from Sweea's dance master, who is the most effeminate not gay man I've perhaps ever met. (I'm serious here; he was fake crying with tears the other day for some reason, I don't know why, because he speaks very little English.) It's costing me some money, but I think the overall experience is worth it. Last Tuesday Sweea's mother took me shopping, and I bought my first two sarees as well as fabric for three salwar kameezes. (I'm sporting one of them in the dance photo below.)

Last Sunday Sweea's mother invited me to go on a day-trip to a dam outside of town. Of course, I couldn't say no, and I was actually excited because I had read about the dam in my Lonely Planet book. It turned out that we were actually going to a different dam 2 times the distance with seven early twenty-year-olds who were all family. At first this was a welcome surprise--Indian college students who are approximately my age, cool! In the end, however, they made me feel quite old. Don't get me wrong, these were lovely, nice, energetic people and they were totally friendly with me. But they were also incredibly, even regrettably, boisterous. Boisterous is a kind word here for loud. And loud is an understatement.

For those of you who know me, I think you'll agree that I can sometimes get out-of-control loud. It was not a rare day during my childhood that I was scolded for talking too loudly, and goodness knows I learned early on not to raise my voice in a car. These volume faux pas don't really seem to exist in India. We left at 5:30 in the morning and by 7 they were warmed up and ready to sing, yell, and scream at the top of their lungs. The festive atmosphere was augmented by various tussles and playful pulling of hair. The driver was by no means left out of the fun, and I must admit that I became a little nervous when a cousin grabbed his hair or punched him on the shoulder as a bus veered into our lane. The best part was, of course, that I couldn't understand most of their conversation; so when they would burst out into a chorus of "ohhhhhh!" I had no idea what we were ohhhhhing about. At one point the volume level was so unbelievable that I rolled down the window and tried to subtly stick my head out of it. . . but then there were those big buses that came just a little too close, so I opted for a double dose of IBprofen instead.

These are two women that I met on the road, when we stopped for tea. Aren't they just the image that pops to your mind when you think of India?

Since I survived, I can now look back on the trip and conclude that it was a worthwhile experience. I saw some beautiful parts of the Andhra Pradesh countryside, and we even drove through a tiger reserve on the way to a huge dam. Near the dam we visited a large Hindu Temple in Srisailam, which I always enjoy. Hindus have the best rituals, I must say.

So we went from flat, low-tree, boulder-strewn countryside. . .

to this lush, mountainous, forest with cliffs. I know that I have some relatives/friends that would love to provide a geological explanation for this. Please comment!

Tuesdays and Thursdays I continue to stay after school to meet my young, female dance teacher, Archana. She is simply lovely and is just enamored with me. I think we're finally over the phase of our relationship where she spends the first 15 minutes of our class taking photos of us together . . . talking on the couch, lounging in front of a tree, taking a walk down the lane. She likes to call me Barbie Doll, which I think is just hilarious. She wants me to come to her house so that she can dress me up in one of her sarees and take more photos. And although it doesn't really sound so fun to me, it'll probably happen as I'm not one to say no.

A Walk Around My Block

The following is the article that appeared in the Sunday Perspective in The Times Argus and Rutland Herald. I thought I'd republish it here for those who are out of town.

Every day I try to take a walk around my neighborhood. After each outing, I return having discovered a new food, tradition, or personality. Let me take you around the block with me; I hope you will discover something new yourself.

I begin by turning right and walking down a relatively quiet residential street. I know a few people on my block, but I am sure they all know me. I pause briefly to avoid a cricket ball. An impromptu game has begun, and four teenage boys are practicing for the national team. In case you had not heard, India won the championship for cricket this year. It was an exciting game, and I watched the last 2 hours as the match turned for India. I even picked up a few of the rules.

The road shortly dead-ends onto a more bustling street. In front of me is one of the myriad bangle stores that characterizes Hyderabad. I passed dozens of bangle shops during my first month here, but I did not make a purchase as I felt a certain loyalty to the local man who never demanded that I enter. Instead, whenever I passed his shop, his face somehow said, "Why don’t you want to buy my bangles? Where else could you be going?" Two days ago I had no good answer to this question, so I went in and made a few purchases. "A few," meaning quite a few. Let’s just say his patience paid off.

So today my bangle man looks up from the counter, and I wave, shaking my bangles and greeting him, "Assalam alai kum!" This is the Urdu greeting used by Muslims. He nods and laughs, as everyone does when I speak in Urdu or Hindi. Across from his shop a temporary hut shelters a clay oven called a bhatti. Since the beginning of Ramadan, a man has been pounding a dough-like mixture made of meat and wheat in a large kettle. This typical Muslim food will be eaten after sunset, when they break their fast. During Ramadan Muslims are encouraged to fast, thus redirecting the mind from world affairs and cleansing the inner soul. It is celebrated during the ninth month, when the Qur’an was first revealed.

I turn right and pass a dumpster. At first I was impressed at the sight of dumpsters in Hyderabad. Trash cans are hard to find in India, and I’m accustomed to looking for the local "pile." The presence of dumpsters, however, does not inhibit the practice of throwing refuse on the ground. The garbage is strewn in front of the half-full dumpster, and the smell would shock even the man on the Dirty Jobs TV show. A sad-looking stray cat, one of thousands, picks through the trash. I move to the other side of the road.

Now I pass a little girl, dressed in one of the frilly dresses that I see in the bazaars. She hides behind the curtain at the entrance to her house, but her eyes betray curiosity. Noticing the bindi on her forehead, I greet her in Hindi, "Namaste." She puts her hand to her mouth in surprise, her eyes opening wide. Perhaps she is thinking similar thoughts to one of the fifth grade students at my school who pointed at my arm and asked, "Are you sick?" My pale skin does indeed look sick to an Indian child, and I hope the media does not teach them otherwise. Too many students and teachers touch my skin with envy; too many products in the stores read, "whitening!" Ironically, it is only in India, where my skin is so contrasting, that I don’t feel self-conscious about my paleness. People here would think I was out of my mind if I tried to get a tan.

When I turn right again, I am greeted with a lane that is strewn with lights. Music blares from a podium on which sits a large statue of Ganesha, the Hindu god with an elephant’s head. The most common story of his birth tells that Parvati, one of Shiva’s consorts, created Ganesha one day to guard the door while she bathed. Shiva returned to be denied entry, and he cut off the figure’s head. When he discovered that he had killed Parvati’s son, Shiva ordered his attendants to bring the head of the first animal they encountered, which turned out to be an elephant.

Ganesha is the Lord of Beginnings and currently Hindus are celebrating his Birthday, Ganesh Chaturthi. The festival lasts ten days during which elaborate Ganesha sculptures made of plaster of Paris are displayed throughout the streets. On the tenth day, the Ganesha idols are paraded through the streets. Drums and dancing often accompany the procession, and colorful powder is thrown onto everyone—even the local foreigner holding two cameras, I discovered.

In Hyderabad, the parade ends at the great Hussain Sagar Lake, where the idols are immersed. I am sure I am not the only Vermonter to wonder about the environmental impact of this tradition. Apparently the idols were originally made out of natural, local materials, and the immersion represented the return to the earth of all things. The rise in the popularity of this festival, however, also stimulated commercial interests that preferred the lighter, cheaper, and more malleable plaster of Paris.

After walking down the decorated lane, I make a final right turn and narrowly miss a motorcycle that is veering around a rickshaw. My heart hardly skips a beat, however; in India these close calls are so common that they cease to be alarming. Ironically, I think I am more laid-back here, despite the fact that the traffic is literally controlled chaos. The lack of sidewalks makes any walk life threatening, and I have gradually improved my ability to be a tourist while keeping one eye always on the road.

I pass a stand of vegetables, a cage of live chickens, and a man pushing a cart of tin objects yelling something that sounds like, "Kureeaa!" People in burqas pass me, their unreadable eyes staring. Last week I met a young, Muslim woman who had been visiting my landlady. She was on her way out when we met, and she was already obscured by her black robes. I felt very awkward because I could not tell how she felt about me—was she scowling under her head covering? My landlady sensed my insecurity and told her to unveil, revealing a beautiful and big smile. I like to imagine that all of the burqa-clad women I pass on the street and ride with in the rickshaws have similar expressions.

Now I am nearing my apartment, and I see that I am just in time to get an ear of roasted corn. I pick out a piece with soft kernels and husk it before handing it over to the weathered man. He places the piece of corn on a bed of coals and entices the fire with a cardboard fan. After a few minutes, he takes the piece from the fire and rubs it with lemon, salt, and chili powder. Four rupees (ten cents) later, I’m enjoying my Indian snack that reminds me just a little bit of home.