This morning, while dodging the normal cars, pedestrians, motorbikes, dogs and goats, on my bike ride to work, I thought about two things: 1) I'd better ride really fast because those clouds look a little too dark for my comfort 2) It's kind of like I'm living every day as opposite day.
Opposite Day was that game kids used to play in elementary school. I remember it as being a strange way of trying to get out of doing something, or insulting someone (or reverse insulting someone by insulting them-which I guess is a compliment in a twisted way). But opposite day here has a different meaning to me. Opposite, you might say, which I realized when I once again set out for my bike commute on the left side of the road, surrounded by a city of dark-skinned residence. I stick out like the mutated white grape on an entire vine of dark purple. But still, just right for the picking (or rather the picking on). I'm used to it by now. I was plenty exposed to it in Gambia, not only with the adult men, but also the stranger kid punk boys walking home from school. Being here brings back a lot of memories (good and bad) from Gambia, and it's hard not to draw comparisons between the two. However, even though they both begin with G and are situated on the Atlantic, they are, indeed, opposite.
Yesterday was the first day of school. I've been indirectly affected by the lead up to school starting, and now, school starting. The first week at work (last week) was pretty slow, as a result. I've discovered a bike route fairly void of traffic, which increases my "Frogger" score immensely, each and every day. On one of the stretches of road, lies about 5 different education centers, including primary and secondary schools (high school), as well as the teacher's union and scout's association.
At the beginning of last week, it appeared there was lots to be done to get ready for the start of school, as observed by my riding to and from work on the school-lined road. The trenches freed of anacondas (just a guess) and the extremely tall grass that made up 3/4 of the area of the school needed to be "slashed". Slashed. From the "slash and burn" technique of farming. But in this present day, it is not the ancient scythe which a man uses for this work, but the mighty and powerful Weed Eater. And for as many Weed Eaters that have made their way into this country, I've yet to see one single push mower (gas powered or otherwise). Every day, I'd see 3 or 4 men working on on field, mouths covered with makeshift bandannas. Every day, more and more of the grass was effectively slashed and the trenches cleared. Every day, I imagined how grateful (or confused) they'd be if I had presented them with a lawn mower.
Yesterday, my quiet school-lined route felt as crowded as an OU home football game and my Frogger points declined significantly, as a result of the complicated stops and starts on my bicycle. But the kids looked so cute in their uniforms and the parents looked so proud to be accompanying them, that I couldn't help but glorify the first day of school.
Today, the road was significantly less crowded, which allowed me to appreciate the beautiful and subsequent "burn" which will now prevent the Weed Eater people from returning until next season, most likely.
And shortly after I arrived to work, down came the rains and washed the anacondas out.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Well, I'm rounding off my first full work week, which means I've observed and encountered nearly a week's worth of writing material...
It took me until Wednesday to realize that I've made it all the way to 30 without ever working a "9-5" job! Great, okay, so what? It is ironic to me that my first one would be in a developing country then, as a Peace Corps Volunteer. And if you've ever spent much time overseas, you realize that most places move at A MUCH slower pace.
My point is that, although I know things will pick up when school starts next week and I've observed that I am indeed placed with a passionate and responsible organization that carries out their mission (every Guyanese child has the right to a safe and stable family and community), I've still had to be pretty creative to keep busy and productive, in one place, for 7 hours. Every day. I've been doing a lot of reading through the materials the staff has on hand, regarding working with kids and teachers and parents. And there's a lot, which is really good.
I also had the opportunity to accompany some of the ladies to a DVD filming project their doing as a campaign to promote areas of a healthy child's life. This one was on education and since September is education month here, their hoping to get it aired on the national TV station. It seems they have a good relationship with areas of the government responsible for a child's welfare and today I went to a workshop which paneled about 6 different agencies (government related as well as NGOs), which was also helpful.
My role is to help strengthen the capacity of the staff in different areas of counseling, through one on one meetings as well as with small presentations and workshops which I will put together, once I figure out what exactly it is they'd like to learn. So, over the next month, I will continue to observe and document what it is they already understand and research what's up to date pertinent information regarding working with an abused or neglected Guyanese child. I think it will be challenging, while strengthening a different set of skills, which will help me become a better social work practioner at the same time.
The weekday goes pretty much like this:
Wake up by alarm between 6:15-6:45, snooze for about half an hour and finally get up about 45 minutes after that. Intentions include doing a little yoga, journal writing, shower and coffee and packing up to be out the door by 8:40 at the latest.
It feels about 95 degrees with 95% humidity by 8:40 am, as I bike to work, dodging traffic and pedestrians and bikers, dogs and goats. After 4 days of trial and error, I have a pretty good route to work. I undoubtedly arrive to work soaking wet.
Around noon, we break for lunch and I'll either eat with the ladies or run a couple of errands. Today I went to the bank and post office and mailed 4 letters and bought $8 worth of stamps, so hopefully I'm good for a while!
From 1-4:30, it's reading or writing or discussing projects or maybe an outing. But next week, people will be in and out of the office a lot more, from what I'm told.
It gets dark by 6:30, so I try to get in as long of a run as I can after work, before that. Maybe I'll stop at the market on the way home and grab some veggies.
After that, it's shower, dinner, relax. Living alone in a foreign country is very different for me because I'm pretty social, but I have a downstairs female neighbor about my age that I see sometimes. Last evening I went on a run with a fellow PCVR and tonight I was invited to a going away dinner for another PCVR couple.
The nice thing about living in the capital is that there are lots of potential PCV get togethers and pot lucks. I'm hoping to have a house warming party next weekend and invite my co-workers and new PCV friends.
On a separately strange note (writing about living in a different culture isn't strange enough), yesterday morning, I saw a tiny frog hopping around my bedroom. I have no idea how common they are or how it got in, but I figured it could also get out on it's own. I was wrong. When I got home, it had, well, croaked. I found it belly up behind my dresser. Then, today, when I pulled in from work, a giant black butterfly had wedged itself in the corner of my stoop. It was so big, I thought it was a bird and startled me. It finally found its way out and fluttered away. But it's been a long time since critters have found themselves in my presence, out of their elements and so I looked up the symbolism. Both the butterfly and frog have been known to symbolize change and transition and emergence to a new being. The black butterfly has also been known to symbolize death of someone close to someone who lives in the household. I'm going to take the change and transition one, thank you.
Finally, even though you shop at the supermarket, you may not get what you expect. I bought packaged salt off the shelf and put in the salt shaker that came with the house. I knew it was salt because there was a sign on the shelf, even though the package was just an unmarked plastic bag. I've been seasoning my hot cooking with it ever since, but then I wanted to salt up some raw veggies, which is precisely when I discovered I was shaking sugar all along...
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox Love you guys.
It took me until Wednesday to realize that I've made it all the way to 30 without ever working a "9-5" job! Great, okay, so what? It is ironic to me that my first one would be in a developing country then, as a Peace Corps Volunteer. And if you've ever spent much time overseas, you realize that most places move at A MUCH slower pace.
My point is that, although I know things will pick up when school starts next week and I've observed that I am indeed placed with a passionate and responsible organization that carries out their mission (every Guyanese child has the right to a safe and stable family and community), I've still had to be pretty creative to keep busy and productive, in one place, for 7 hours. Every day. I've been doing a lot of reading through the materials the staff has on hand, regarding working with kids and teachers and parents. And there's a lot, which is really good.
I also had the opportunity to accompany some of the ladies to a DVD filming project their doing as a campaign to promote areas of a healthy child's life. This one was on education and since September is education month here, their hoping to get it aired on the national TV station. It seems they have a good relationship with areas of the government responsible for a child's welfare and today I went to a workshop which paneled about 6 different agencies (government related as well as NGOs), which was also helpful.
 |
| Education DVD filming with kids we serve. |
My role is to help strengthen the capacity of the staff in different areas of counseling, through one on one meetings as well as with small presentations and workshops which I will put together, once I figure out what exactly it is they'd like to learn. So, over the next month, I will continue to observe and document what it is they already understand and research what's up to date pertinent information regarding working with an abused or neglected Guyanese child. I think it will be challenging, while strengthening a different set of skills, which will help me become a better social work practioner at the same time.
The weekday goes pretty much like this:
Wake up by alarm between 6:15-6:45, snooze for about half an hour and finally get up about 45 minutes after that. Intentions include doing a little yoga, journal writing, shower and coffee and packing up to be out the door by 8:40 at the latest.
It feels about 95 degrees with 95% humidity by 8:40 am, as I bike to work, dodging traffic and pedestrians and bikers, dogs and goats. After 4 days of trial and error, I have a pretty good route to work. I undoubtedly arrive to work soaking wet.
Around noon, we break for lunch and I'll either eat with the ladies or run a couple of errands. Today I went to the bank and post office and mailed 4 letters and bought $8 worth of stamps, so hopefully I'm good for a while!
 |
| Saw this on a walk around on of the neighborhoods. |
It gets dark by 6:30, so I try to get in as long of a run as I can after work, before that. Maybe I'll stop at the market on the way home and grab some veggies.
After that, it's shower, dinner, relax. Living alone in a foreign country is very different for me because I'm pretty social, but I have a downstairs female neighbor about my age that I see sometimes. Last evening I went on a run with a fellow PCVR and tonight I was invited to a going away dinner for another PCVR couple.
The nice thing about living in the capital is that there are lots of potential PCV get togethers and pot lucks. I'm hoping to have a house warming party next weekend and invite my co-workers and new PCV friends.
On a separately strange note (writing about living in a different culture isn't strange enough), yesterday morning, I saw a tiny frog hopping around my bedroom. I have no idea how common they are or how it got in, but I figured it could also get out on it's own. I was wrong. When I got home, it had, well, croaked. I found it belly up behind my dresser. Then, today, when I pulled in from work, a giant black butterfly had wedged itself in the corner of my stoop. It was so big, I thought it was a bird and startled me. It finally found its way out and fluttered away. But it's been a long time since critters have found themselves in my presence, out of their elements and so I looked up the symbolism. Both the butterfly and frog have been known to symbolize change and transition and emergence to a new being. The black butterfly has also been known to symbolize death of someone close to someone who lives in the household. I'm going to take the change and transition one, thank you.
 |
| Cute?! |
Finally, even though you shop at the supermarket, you may not get what you expect. I bought packaged salt off the shelf and put in the salt shaker that came with the house. I knew it was salt because there was a sign on the shelf, even though the package was just an unmarked plastic bag. I've been seasoning my hot cooking with it ever since, but then I wanted to salt up some raw veggies, which is precisely when I discovered I was shaking sugar all along...
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox Love you guys.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
All Four Guyana
I was a freshman in high school when my family packed up everything in my childhood home and moved into a town home apartment. It was a big adjustment for me and my entire family, but it probably wasn't as big of an adjustment that our next door neighbors, another family of four, was about to make. They were moving to Guyana, South America as missionaries. It was the first time I had heard of two things: the country of Guyana, and "blogs". It was 1995 and I remember my mom being very excited to follow their blog because I think we had just installed dial-up for the first time in our family's history. Their blog was called "All Four Guyana" and you'd better believe it was the first thing I searched when I found out I was moving here, too.
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| View from the road |
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| Sugar cane fields. |
While there are several similarities to my experiences in Gambia (unwanted attention and cat calling, coastal, British colonization), I can already infer that this post is going to be very different. For example, the infrastructure in Guyana is much more developed. Roads are paved along the coast and there is electricity and running water, as far as I can tell. I met with a fellow co-worker last week and even though it's still much more relaxed than the States, working hours are roughly 9-4:30 and I have a somewhat specific job with ChildLinK, which strives to give every child in Guyana the opportunity to live an abuse-free and opportunity filled childhood.
My "training" as a Peace Corps Response has been much different, as well. Instead of 3 months of living with a host family and learning the ins and outs, I had an extremely intense and inclusive 4 day training, in which me and a fellow PCVR were shuttled around for banking, counterpart meetings, lease agreement signings, shopping, etc, and basic introductions of culture, safety and security and background of the country, by our PC supervisor. Basically, now I know everything and nothing. My biggest fears were flooding in the rainy season and hurricanes, which apparently begin north of us, on the coast of Venezuela. I am convinced that everyone should own a boat, but our safety officer assured us that the next major flood won't happen for at least 2 more years (the last one drowned Georgetown in 2005).
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| Front view of my apartment. |
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| Fully functioning kitchen! Universally my favorite room in the house. |
Anyway, I will still gladly accept care packages, although they will take a long time to get to me, so send them ASAP!
US Embassy Guyana
100-101 Young & Duke Streets
Georgetown, Guyana
South America
Attention : Peace Corps / Courtney GilmanWednesday, February 15, 2012
1000 points:
I never thought of my eyes as bullseyes, until ours accidentally locked.
Sticking out in the crowded streets, like I'm dressed in red and white stripes from head to toe. Where in the hell did Waldo hide?
One. Big. Giant. Target.
Fifty points for 1/2 my sandwich
One hundred for getting me to smile
Two hundred and fifty points per per percentage of price inflation
And five hundred points for a digital capturation
What's the exchange rate for cultural exchange?
What's the translation for comfort?
Funny. I've never heard it pronounced that way before.
But I'm beginning to learn to speak your language.
And I'm prepared to pay your price.
Because you're not fooling me. I know there's not just one way or one single rate.
And I'm somewhat wiser now to k
now when NOT to take the bate.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Freezer-burned, but thawed
Sometimes I wonder if we are all really creatures of comfort. Just what does that mean exactly and where does that saying come from, I wonder? When I observe the world around me, especially when traveling, I tend to witness what I'd perceive as discomfort. And then, I really begin to question and compare my tolerance for comfort with those by which I'm surrounded on a daily basis. I'd like to think my tolerance for discomfort is fairly high. For example, I don't prefer to sleep in a crowded and noisy room, but I can tolerate it. I don't really like extreme weather (hot or cold), but I can tolerate it. I don't like being filthy dirty for great lengths of time, but I can certainly tolerate it. I don't prefer chaos and crowds and noise and air pollution, but I can tolerate it.
In January 2006, I went on a climbing trip to Hueco Tanks State Park and Somewhere, New Mexico. It was a bizarre trip. One of my climbing partners fell wrong on his ankle, later to find out that it was actually broken the whole time he was limping around with what he thought was a sprain. He was a trouper though and was in it for the whole trip. So after bouldering for a week, my other friend and I planned for a multiple pitch climb in New Mexico, for a day, before heading home. By my stomach had other plans...
That night, we arrived to our campsite in complete darkness, in the middle of Nowhere, NM. We were the only ones for miles and miles, but somehow we pulled up on some empty land with a concrete enclosed porta-poty. It wasn't until we ate dinner, washed dishes and bundled up in our sleeping clothes that I realized how much I had in fact, lucked out. We huddled together in the tent, creating body heat to fight off the frigidness of the night. Then my stomach started to rumble, and so began the night which I spent keeled over, yet eternally grateful for the concrete encasement I mentioned earlier. The rest of the night, I went back and forth from the toilet to our truck, both seemed like refuge, until the other felt like a prison cell. The combination of my stomach bug fever chills, with the night desert temps left me in a state of discomfort like one I'd never known before. I felt broken down and helpless, while my partners struggled to keep themselves well and warm. And when the sun began to creep up over the cliffs, the sole survivor of our climbing trinity began to drive his crippled partners homeward bound.
That was then, this is now... And me and my 3 travel companions had a night last week that gave the one I just described, a run for its money.
Our couch surfing host linked us with a thoughtful and affordable travel guide in Delhi, so from that time, until Rishikesh, we were fortunate to draft under the wings of our driver, Hari, by a "comfortable" car.
In January 2006, I went on a climbing trip to Hueco Tanks State Park and Somewhere, New Mexico. It was a bizarre trip. One of my climbing partners fell wrong on his ankle, later to find out that it was actually broken the whole time he was limping around with what he thought was a sprain. He was a trouper though and was in it for the whole trip. So after bouldering for a week, my other friend and I planned for a multiple pitch climb in New Mexico, for a day, before heading home. By my stomach had other plans...
That night, we arrived to our campsite in complete darkness, in the middle of Nowhere, NM. We were the only ones for miles and miles, but somehow we pulled up on some empty land with a concrete enclosed porta-poty. It wasn't until we ate dinner, washed dishes and bundled up in our sleeping clothes that I realized how much I had in fact, lucked out. We huddled together in the tent, creating body heat to fight off the frigidness of the night. Then my stomach started to rumble, and so began the night which I spent keeled over, yet eternally grateful for the concrete encasement I mentioned earlier. The rest of the night, I went back and forth from the toilet to our truck, both seemed like refuge, until the other felt like a prison cell. The combination of my stomach bug fever chills, with the night desert temps left me in a state of discomfort like one I'd never known before. I felt broken down and helpless, while my partners struggled to keep themselves well and warm. And when the sun began to creep up over the cliffs, the sole survivor of our climbing trinity began to drive his crippled partners homeward bound.
That was then, this is now... And me and my 3 travel companions had a night last week that gave the one I just described, a run for its money.
Our couch surfing host linked us with a thoughtful and affordable travel guide in Delhi, so from that time, until Rishikesh, we were fortunate to draft under the wings of our driver, Hari, by a "comfortable" car.
From Rishikesh, we decided to spice up our means of travel by opting for the overnight train (an 8 hour ride from Haridwar to Delhi) and from there, it would be a simple navigation through the Delhi Metro and onwards towards the airport and a straight shot home to Mumbai. Little did we know just how spicy our train ride would be. But when we arrived at the open air train depot in time for our 11:10pm departure, it became immediately obvious that we had ordered a "3 chilly-pictured" Indian curry, that couldn't be sent back.
The waiting area looked like one of those disaster relief centers you've seen on the news. Families were spread out everywhere on pallets, protecting themselves and huddling together, from the frigid outside air, with thick wool blankets and full winter gear. Small boys crouched near the boarding docks, selling giant, uncut sheets of Butterfingers and Oreo Cookie wrappers. Jen had the genius insight to suggest buying some after taking a look around us. It was clear from the get go that we'd be venturing far away from our comfort zones for a bit. Maybe dressing ourselves in a giant heat trapping candy bar might make us more comfortable? Or blend in, as strange as a life size candy bar sounds...
The intercom announced the boarding of our train about 15 minutes before its departure, and the typical thing occurred: Indains swarmed to push and shove to be among the first to get in, and we patiently, yet anxiously walked the dock in search of our car. Once we got towards the end, with no sign of "S8", we began to question ourselves, before finally questioning someone else. Back and forth we walked, certain that we'd overlooked something. They told us to head front again and we declared it wasn't there. It was suggested that we just board somewhere and find our spots later. I got on the "AC" car at the front of the train and asked if we could park ourselves there, at the sight of pillows and blankets and privacy curtains. Not possible, so we got off and asked another, more official looking guy, who told us to follow another passenger to the front, after we walked again to the end. Finally, it clicked: our car hadn't yet been linked to the rest of the train, which gave me a strange mix of relief of our secured spot and dis concern that it would be hastily and improperly attached.
We boarded and found our section of seats, which we shared with an Indian family. They were bunk style beds, stacked 3 tall on each side, then 2 tall on the other side of the narrow walk path. The car, which uncomfortably slept 8, was smaller than what I'd imagine a 2 person jail cell to be. We selected our bunks for the midnight ride. Stacy chose the bottom across the ally and I chose the two top bunks. We were like the upper slice of white bread, between and Indian sleeping sandwich. Jennifer was the bottom slice in my sleeping sandwich and we had no middle. We began making our beds for the 8 hour ride. I placed my FiberOne wrapper on the bunk, where thousands had likely laid. It crinkled like Christmas cellophane wrapping, and the air inside was just as cold. I placed my giant backpack on the upper bunk above Stacy, for easy access. When we heard it would be cold, I thought I'd plan ahead by donning a bunch of clothing: leggings plus pants, thickest pair of socks and hiking shoes, a t-shirt and dress, my pull over sweater and fleece jacket, scarf, hat and gloves. I was fairly comfortable at that point, and as I laid out my airplane blanket, all purpose piece of fabric, shower towel and Butterfingers wrapper to seal everything in, I thought it might not be as bad as I thought. At least I still had a button up sweater and vest and ear muffs I could add if worse came to worse. I crinkled my way to a restful position, after using the pit latrine toilet that I was pretty certain emptied straight out on the tracks. At first I was self conscious of all the wrapping noise I was making, but as people somehow managed to drift on to dreamland, the snorechestra began. The man on the other side of the cage, directly next to me hands down placed 1st chair, with the guy sandwiched under Steven taking 2nd chair, and the lady on the bottom, a close 3rd.
I opted for music instead of earplugs, even though I have a hard time falling asleep to the former. At least this way, I could control the volume and act as the conductor of this 8 hour long sleeping symphony. As Elliot Smith creatively depressing lyrics drifted in and out of my consciousness, and the train moved to its own swaying beat, many thoughts went through my head. I was about 12 time zones away from home and even further from my comfort zone.
The train stopped for unknown reasons, for unknown lengths of time. I'd find myself getting frustrated until at one point, I heard a whistle coming closer and closer, until our whole car shook from the vibrations of the oncoming train, one track space away. Then my mind switched to the safety of our tracks, like I had hoped the railroad engineers had done, allowing the other train to pass. Take all the time you need, I thought.
As the night rolled on, I became more and more chilled. When we moved, so did the wind, through the bare windows. I put on all the clothes I had at one point when I got down to empty my bladder onto the tracks, and crawled back up into my ice tray. At one point, I remembered that our car had been attached last, and held on to that though. If for some reason, cars started unlocking themselves, maybe mine was less likely? Then, there was the thought that it could be worse. We could have been in a completely open, flat bed train, experiencing the wind and weather full force. Or we could have been crammed with 20x the people, standing room only, like cattle being transported from point A to point B. And then the slave trade and the holocaust crossed my mind. Not that I thought the situation was anywhere comparable, but I couldn't help picturing the thousands of people where were in a situation 1000x worse. Cold, hungry, crammed, sick, vomiting, excreting waste, likely next to strangers. This boxcar served as my ice tray for 8 hours, with a foreseeable thawing future, but their future was like black ice, dangerous and deadly.
Finally, 6am rolled around and I could see the end in sight. I kept trying to think of what I would communicate to my fellow Spatilloman clan. Wanting to remain positive, I tried to convince myself that "it wasn't that bad". But I couldn't even bring myself to declare that. In fact, the previous 8 hours had really really sucked. Really sucked. I had a cold going into the night, and that ride pushed it to a hacking chest cough, that I'm just now really getting over, a whole week later. And I felt emotionally drained and weak and tired and disappointed in myself for thinking of it as having really sucked. After all, 100s of Indians had just endured the same experience (or slept right through it). I try not to have expectations, especially when traveling overseas, because it can easily lead to disappointment. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess, or at least lends you to make more informed decisions, and above all, teaches you tolerance.
We've spent this past week on a sunny beach in south India, in the state of Goa. It's like night and day from the north, and nothing like the train ride. I feel spoiled and sunburned, in a couple of words. Tonight is our last night and we held an open mic poetry night at our dinner table. I am sad that the trip is coming to an end, but excited about what I've taken away from it and ready to apply it to life in the States. Tomorrow, early morning yoga and breakfast with Vijay, our teacher here who's pushing 60.
xo
I opted for music instead of earplugs, even though I have a hard time falling asleep to the former. At least this way, I could control the volume and act as the conductor of this 8 hour long sleeping symphony. As Elliot Smith creatively depressing lyrics drifted in and out of my consciousness, and the train moved to its own swaying beat, many thoughts went through my head. I was about 12 time zones away from home and even further from my comfort zone.
The train stopped for unknown reasons, for unknown lengths of time. I'd find myself getting frustrated until at one point, I heard a whistle coming closer and closer, until our whole car shook from the vibrations of the oncoming train, one track space away. Then my mind switched to the safety of our tracks, like I had hoped the railroad engineers had done, allowing the other train to pass. Take all the time you need, I thought.
As the night rolled on, I became more and more chilled. When we moved, so did the wind, through the bare windows. I put on all the clothes I had at one point when I got down to empty my bladder onto the tracks, and crawled back up into my ice tray. At one point, I remembered that our car had been attached last, and held on to that though. If for some reason, cars started unlocking themselves, maybe mine was less likely? Then, there was the thought that it could be worse. We could have been in a completely open, flat bed train, experiencing the wind and weather full force. Or we could have been crammed with 20x the people, standing room only, like cattle being transported from point A to point B. And then the slave trade and the holocaust crossed my mind. Not that I thought the situation was anywhere comparable, but I couldn't help picturing the thousands of people where were in a situation 1000x worse. Cold, hungry, crammed, sick, vomiting, excreting waste, likely next to strangers. This boxcar served as my ice tray for 8 hours, with a foreseeable thawing future, but their future was like black ice, dangerous and deadly.
Finally, 6am rolled around and I could see the end in sight. I kept trying to think of what I would communicate to my fellow Spatilloman clan. Wanting to remain positive, I tried to convince myself that "it wasn't that bad". But I couldn't even bring myself to declare that. In fact, the previous 8 hours had really really sucked. Really sucked. I had a cold going into the night, and that ride pushed it to a hacking chest cough, that I'm just now really getting over, a whole week later. And I felt emotionally drained and weak and tired and disappointed in myself for thinking of it as having really sucked. After all, 100s of Indians had just endured the same experience (or slept right through it). I try not to have expectations, especially when traveling overseas, because it can easily lead to disappointment. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I guess, or at least lends you to make more informed decisions, and above all, teaches you tolerance.
We've spent this past week on a sunny beach in south India, in the state of Goa. It's like night and day from the north, and nothing like the train ride. I feel spoiled and sunburned, in a couple of words. Tonight is our last night and we held an open mic poetry night at our dinner table. I am sad that the trip is coming to an end, but excited about what I've taken away from it and ready to apply it to life in the States. Tomorrow, early morning yoga and breakfast with Vijay, our teacher here who's pushing 60.
xo
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Go with your gut, or it will surely get got
Traveling and exploring different lands and cultures and foods and languages feels about as foreign sometimes to me as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Recently, visiting lesser developed countries has brought more fulfillment (not to mention excitement) to my life, than visiting more developed ones. Of course, travel anywhere tests feats of strength in many ways, including navigation and language barriers, but if you care to test your patience, comfort level, and above all, toilet facility usage, take a tour out east.
I'm one of those fortunate people who loves road trips and being in motion in moving vehicles. I can ride for hours and hours, entertaining myself and my company. Unfortunately, my tiny bladder doesn't always agree, and combined with my water drinking addiction, I'm my fellow road trippers' truck stop nightmare. Traveling all over the US, I've began to think of any trip in terms of toilets. The stretch on I-35 from Norman to Carrollton? I bet I've seen the inside of at least 50 different stalls at about 20 different stations, since moving to Norman about 10 years ago.
In the States I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I get all the Loves and QuikTrips and Flying Js I want and I can even choose to prefer them to the state rest stop areas. But in reality, I could "tour" any toilet, and in reality, I probably have. Because no matter if you're offered plush, quilted toilet paper and a wide sitting space, or squatting over a concrete slab with a mouse-house sized hole, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
As one might imagine, road trips in India are a little more, let's say, intense... At 6:30am on Feb 5th, we left our hotel in the undesirable city of Agra, in route to Rishikesh. Our driver, Hari, warned us it could take about 12 hours, but not because the distance is that far. It's only about 210 miles, approximately the same distance from north Oklahoma City, to downtown Dallas. It takes about an hour to simply escape the gridlock and honks of any city in India. And you're never really free of either one of those, completely. And it took us about 2 hours to pass through the capital city, Delhi, with about 1.5 million residents. And once we finally got north of Delhi and out on the "open" road, it went down to two lanes, which really put the word "trip" back in road trip. We took turns switching seats, but the lucky person who needed the front for carsickness or space, got a personal omniplex presentation, as Steven said. Hari was constantly starting and stopping and dodging traffic, cows, people, potholes, you name it... We saw a couple of serious accidents, and then, about 15 minutes later, saw the ambulance fighting traffic from the opposite direction. But we were fine, and very fortunate road trippers. We had an extremely skillful and patient driver, books and music and snacks, a guaranteed pick up and drop off, fuel, a reliable car, and above all, all the opportunities to tour toilets-western, eastern, outside, inside, pubic and personal, that we wanted.
Hari was pretty dead on, and by7:30pm, we arrived in Laxman Juhle, just north of Rishikesh, in the foothills of the Himalayas, and a yogi's dream, or an indecisive person's (like me) nightmare. Stacy informed me that the Beatles came here in the 60s, and after which, the town garnered much attention. Now it is known for a backpacker's destination and it is a mix of yoga shalas and ashrams and restaurants and souvenir stands and ayurvedic centers and holistic holes, every single way you glance. I think we have done a pretty good job of filtering out most of the signs and information to have an enjoyable and relaxing time here, and escape from the over crowded and polluted cities. Our hotel, Divya, is simple and cheap and slightly away from strip. We've tried out different shalas and yoga classes, including Ashtanga (the kind I practice in Norman), Vinyasa flow, and traditional Hatha yoga. We've walked down the quieter streets and explored unfamiliar paths, which often led to the Ganges River, but always a new adventure. One day, we took a motor rickshaw down to Rishikesh and spent a day watching people in their
pilgrimage to the Hindu holy waters. Jen and Stacy bought an offering of flowers from a woman and we all contemplated and participated in the culture and enjoyed the river in our own ways (including befriending beggar children, indulging in paparazzi pictures, writing, and dipping our feet into the waters).
Yesterday, we found another way to the river, down a rocky ridge, in Laxman Juhle. After discovering a lingam (represented in rock form, it is the fire that has no beginning or end) alter and writing for a while, my tiny bladder told me it was was time for another toilet tour. I trusted my gut and asked to use a resident's bathroom when I saw a boy looking down at me from above, outside a window. I walked inside, used the bathroom, and on my way out, the voices from one of the rooms called out to me to "come in, come in"! I bent down to peer inside, and two old men sat around a tiny wood fire, boiling raw cow's milk, behind a giant alter of pictures and statues of Hindu gods and goddesses. Dressed in orange, beards tinted orange from henna and hair knotted and dreaded and wrapped around heads like a giant turban, Omkar Puri and Bhola Baba invited me in. After a split second thought, I was taking off my shoes and joining them for a cup of milk. The men were Sadus, said to denounce worldly possessions in exchange for faith. They invited the rest of my "family" in and before we knew it, we were hearing the history of the Ganges River in Hindi first, then the whole thing again translated to English, and being invited for dinner the next day. Stacy commented that the story was a good one, and Omkar Puri exclaimed it wasn't a story, but of course, the truth! (and how would we think otherwise, when in ancient times, a Sadu killed a king's 60,000 sons with a single nostril blow of fire)?!
Tonight we are off on a sleeper train back to Delhi, to catch a flight back to Mumbai and recuperate at Steven's sanctuary for a day, before heading down south, to warmer climate and spicier food, near the beach town of Goa. The sleeper train brings thought of the movie Darjeeling Ltd, and by the end of India, I think we will have just about experienced all of the major modes of transportation a person can take! It's been cold here and we've all been a little under the weather at some point, up north. We have about 10 days left of our journey and I can't believe we've seen and experienced this much. My traveling companions are considerate and adventurous and polite and organized and I'm enjoying every minute of this trip. I keep thinking positively and am excited to find out what's in stall the next time duty calls...
I'm one of those fortunate people who loves road trips and being in motion in moving vehicles. I can ride for hours and hours, entertaining myself and my company. Unfortunately, my tiny bladder doesn't always agree, and combined with my water drinking addiction, I'm my fellow road trippers' truck stop nightmare. Traveling all over the US, I've began to think of any trip in terms of toilets. The stretch on I-35 from Norman to Carrollton? I bet I've seen the inside of at least 50 different stalls at about 20 different stations, since moving to Norman about 10 years ago.
In the States I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I get all the Loves and QuikTrips and Flying Js I want and I can even choose to prefer them to the state rest stop areas. But in reality, I could "tour" any toilet, and in reality, I probably have. Because no matter if you're offered plush, quilted toilet paper and a wide sitting space, or squatting over a concrete slab with a mouse-house sized hole, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
As one might imagine, road trips in India are a little more, let's say, intense... At 6:30am on Feb 5th, we left our hotel in the undesirable city of Agra, in route to Rishikesh. Our driver, Hari, warned us it could take about 12 hours, but not because the distance is that far. It's only about 210 miles, approximately the same distance from north Oklahoma City, to downtown Dallas. It takes about an hour to simply escape the gridlock and honks of any city in India. And you're never really free of either one of those, completely. And it took us about 2 hours to pass through the capital city, Delhi, with about 1.5 million residents. And once we finally got north of Delhi and out on the "open" road, it went down to two lanes, which really put the word "trip" back in road trip. We took turns switching seats, but the lucky person who needed the front for carsickness or space, got a personal omniplex presentation, as Steven said. Hari was constantly starting and stopping and dodging traffic, cows, people, potholes, you name it... We saw a couple of serious accidents, and then, about 15 minutes later, saw the ambulance fighting traffic from the opposite direction. But we were fine, and very fortunate road trippers. We had an extremely skillful and patient driver, books and music and snacks, a guaranteed pick up and drop off, fuel, a reliable car, and above all, all the opportunities to tour toilets-western, eastern, outside, inside, pubic and personal, that we wanted.
Hari was pretty dead on, and by7:30pm, we arrived in Laxman Juhle, just north of Rishikesh, in the foothills of the Himalayas, and a yogi's dream, or an indecisive person's (like me) nightmare. Stacy informed me that the Beatles came here in the 60s, and after which, the town garnered much attention. Now it is known for a backpacker's destination and it is a mix of yoga shalas and ashrams and restaurants and souvenir stands and ayurvedic centers and holistic holes, every single way you glance. I think we have done a pretty good job of filtering out most of the signs and information to have an enjoyable and relaxing time here, and escape from the over crowded and polluted cities. Our hotel, Divya, is simple and cheap and slightly away from strip. We've tried out different shalas and yoga classes, including Ashtanga (the kind I practice in Norman), Vinyasa flow, and traditional Hatha yoga. We've walked down the quieter streets and explored unfamiliar paths, which often led to the Ganges River, but always a new adventure. One day, we took a motor rickshaw down to Rishikesh and spent a day watching people in their
pilgrimage to the Hindu holy waters. Jen and Stacy bought an offering of flowers from a woman and we all contemplated and participated in the culture and enjoyed the river in our own ways (including befriending beggar children, indulging in paparazzi pictures, writing, and dipping our feet into the waters).Yesterday, we found another way to the river, down a rocky ridge, in Laxman Juhle. After discovering a lingam (represented in rock form, it is the fire that has no beginning or end) alter and writing for a while, my tiny bladder told me it was was time for another toilet tour. I trusted my gut and asked to use a resident's bathroom when I saw a boy looking down at me from above, outside a window. I walked inside, used the bathroom, and on my way out, the voices from one of the rooms called out to me to "come in, come in"! I bent down to peer inside, and two old men sat around a tiny wood fire, boiling raw cow's milk, behind a giant alter of pictures and statues of Hindu gods and goddesses. Dressed in orange, beards tinted orange from henna and hair knotted and dreaded and wrapped around heads like a giant turban, Omkar Puri and Bhola Baba invited me in. After a split second thought, I was taking off my shoes and joining them for a cup of milk. The men were Sadus, said to denounce worldly possessions in exchange for faith. They invited the rest of my "family" in and before we knew it, we were hearing the history of the Ganges River in Hindi first, then the whole thing again translated to English, and being invited for dinner the next day. Stacy commented that the story was a good one, and Omkar Puri exclaimed it wasn't a story, but of course, the truth! (and how would we think otherwise, when in ancient times, a Sadu killed a king's 60,000 sons with a single nostril blow of fire)?!
Tonight we are off on a sleeper train back to Delhi, to catch a flight back to Mumbai and recuperate at Steven's sanctuary for a day, before heading down south, to warmer climate and spicier food, near the beach town of Goa. The sleeper train brings thought of the movie Darjeeling Ltd, and by the end of India, I think we will have just about experienced all of the major modes of transportation a person can take! It's been cold here and we've all been a little under the weather at some point, up north. We have about 10 days left of our journey and I can't believe we've seen and experienced this much. My traveling companions are considerate and adventurous and polite and organized and I'm enjoying every minute of this trip. I keep thinking positively and am excited to find out what's in stall the next time duty calls...
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Can I drive your rickshaw?
Ah, the open road. The fresh air. For a second there, I forgot I was in India. Then we passed a herd of camels, 10 bicycle rickshaws carrying 20x their weight, I looked up and and saw the traffic coming at me from the wrong side, circled a few roundabouts, then was brought back to Asia...
Since leaving the calming quarters of Steven's apartment on campus in Mumbai, we hit the ground running, to experience the offerings of the streets of one of the most populated cities in the entire world. Our sleeping quarters coincidentally proportionately represented the crowdedness of Delhi, and after 3 nights of what Jennifer coined "pallet surfing", with 10-15 other residents and fellow Couch Surfers, I felt like I had seen as much of Delhi as I needed to see. Staying with the family was humbling and I was re-exposed to the bucket bath, this time in an emclosed space, with an electric plate placed in the bucket to warm it up. Like I mentioned before, couch surfing is always a roll of the dice, but I am traveling with some serious troupers and even though it was initially a shock (perhaps in a couple of ways for Stacy during bath time), we all agreed that we were grateful for the hospitality and kindness of our hosts and that it certainly is important to understand or at least experience a glimpse of life through a "middle class" Indian's eyes.
After 3 nights in Delhi, we were on our way to Jaipur, at the suggestion of our CS host. We opted for hiring a car for four days through Wahoe Travel and so far we haven't been steered wrongly. In Jaipur we went to a couple of monument sites, including the Red Fort, where we wooed the nationals with some acrobatic yoga and juggling. (Don't worry there are pictures and video-as if being westerners didn't draw enough attention). But even before we began the show, Jennifer and my's blonde hair already made us famous. I am beginning to get quite the collection of photos with other Indians. I wonder what they do with theirs... The next day, we visited the Amber Fort, Sawai Jai Singh, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and an Indian astrological observatory, the Nar Har Garh, a palace made of marble, where we could see the entire city of Jaipur, down below. I sat outside the Amber Fort palace, but inside the walls of the fort, while Jen, Stacy and Steven went inside. It was only a matter of minutes of sitting under a tree and writing, before one family after another approached me to take photos with them. In Jaipur, we stayed at this hotel called Hotel Moonlight Palace, that was exquisite and made us all the more appreciative of our previous quarters.
Today we left early in the morning with Hare, our sweet and patient driver, to head to Agra. It is the the first time I've really been able to see the "countryside" of India. It was nice to see fields of green and grains and flowers and eucalyptus trees lining the streets. I even caught site of a hand water pump. Once, we stopped for a pee and breakfast break, but not even Hare thought the restaurant was up to standards, so we rode on. Agra is known for one thing and one thing only: the Taj Mahal- Shan Jahad's wife's tomb. After stepping foot in Agra, I know one thing and one thing only: I'll never come back. Touring the Taj Mahal is like touring Disney Land, on a stimulant. Ushered this way, corralled that way, foreigners line up here, pay this much, plus this much more to pee. The only other exciting thing besides the incredible and magnificent Taj, was that I convinced a bicycle rickshaw driver to let me drive him on his own rickshaw. Of course, it was not without a price!
Tomorrow we'll head out of town again to try to seek some peace and solace, after a 12 hour car ride, to Rishikesh, a town in the foothills of the Himalayas, known for meditation and yoga. THAT will be a breath of fresh air. Until that is, I wake up from my nights sleep!
Since leaving the calming quarters of Steven's apartment on campus in Mumbai, we hit the ground running, to experience the offerings of the streets of one of the most populated cities in the entire world. Our sleeping quarters coincidentally proportionately represented the crowdedness of Delhi, and after 3 nights of what Jennifer coined "pallet surfing", with 10-15 other residents and fellow Couch Surfers, I felt like I had seen as much of Delhi as I needed to see. Staying with the family was humbling and I was re-exposed to the bucket bath, this time in an emclosed space, with an electric plate placed in the bucket to warm it up. Like I mentioned before, couch surfing is always a roll of the dice, but I am traveling with some serious troupers and even though it was initially a shock (perhaps in a couple of ways for Stacy during bath time), we all agreed that we were grateful for the hospitality and kindness of our hosts and that it certainly is important to understand or at least experience a glimpse of life through a "middle class" Indian's eyes.
After 3 nights in Delhi, we were on our way to Jaipur, at the suggestion of our CS host. We opted for hiring a car for four days through Wahoe Travel and so far we haven't been steered wrongly. In Jaipur we went to a couple of monument sites, including the Red Fort, where we wooed the nationals with some acrobatic yoga and juggling. (Don't worry there are pictures and video-as if being westerners didn't draw enough attention). But even before we began the show, Jennifer and my's blonde hair already made us famous. I am beginning to get quite the collection of photos with other Indians. I wonder what they do with theirs... The next day, we visited the Amber Fort, Sawai Jai Singh, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and an Indian astrological observatory, the Nar Har Garh, a palace made of marble, where we could see the entire city of Jaipur, down below. I sat outside the Amber Fort palace, but inside the walls of the fort, while Jen, Stacy and Steven went inside. It was only a matter of minutes of sitting under a tree and writing, before one family after another approached me to take photos with them. In Jaipur, we stayed at this hotel called Hotel Moonlight Palace, that was exquisite and made us all the more appreciative of our previous quarters.
Today we left early in the morning with Hare, our sweet and patient driver, to head to Agra. It is the the first time I've really been able to see the "countryside" of India. It was nice to see fields of green and grains and flowers and eucalyptus trees lining the streets. I even caught site of a hand water pump. Once, we stopped for a pee and breakfast break, but not even Hare thought the restaurant was up to standards, so we rode on. Agra is known for one thing and one thing only: the Taj Mahal- Shan Jahad's wife's tomb. After stepping foot in Agra, I know one thing and one thing only: I'll never come back. Touring the Taj Mahal is like touring Disney Land, on a stimulant. Ushered this way, corralled that way, foreigners line up here, pay this much, plus this much more to pee. The only other exciting thing besides the incredible and magnificent Taj, was that I convinced a bicycle rickshaw driver to let me drive him on his own rickshaw. Of course, it was not without a price!
Tomorrow we'll head out of town again to try to seek some peace and solace, after a 12 hour car ride, to Rishikesh, a town in the foothills of the Himalayas, known for meditation and yoga. THAT will be a breath of fresh air. Until that is, I wake up from my nights sleep!
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